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A, TOMPK I N" o' AND 'B. : B, M'U S S E Y. 


Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1842, 

By Abel Tompkins, 
In the Clerk's Oiiice of the District Court of Massachusetts. 





No, 12 Water Street. 

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Accept, dear reader, the Fourth blossom of 
our cherished Rose. We present it, not because 
it is costly and rare, — gorgeous and of difficult 
cultivation, but because we believe it will minis- 
ter to your enjoyment, and beguile you of your 
cares ; and because we wish, also, that its annual 
improvements may receive the meed of your 

Our contributors have been unwontedly gen- 
erous. We owe them a thousand cordial thanks. 
A few gentlemen are missed from their accus- 
tomed places, but we trust another year will re- 
store them. One sweet spirit has ceased her 
earthly songs ; but in this volume of the Rose her 
loss will not be so greatly felt. We regret the 
unavoidable omission of an editorial article, enti- 


tied, " Kate Scranton and her Original," the 
design of which was to point out the strong points 
of likeness in the characters of " The Dweller 
Apart " and her lamented author. We believe 
it would have thrown an increased interest around 
the latest work of her pen, to have been told 
what a truthful and beautiful portraiture of her 
own nature is given in the history of poor Kate. 
As it is, we would simply remark, that " The 
Dweller Apart " is to be considered rather as a 
fragment than a finished tale. Ill health and 
premature death prevented the completion of her 
original design. 

Once more we take affectionate leave of the 
reader, with the earnest wish that this volume 
may contribute largely to his intellectual tastes — 
that it may soothe hours of weariness, and pleas- 
antly fill up many a small void in life's sterner 

Boston, August 1st. 



The Dweller Apart Mrs. J. H. Scott. 9 

Sunset Mrs. Sarah Broughton. 47 

The Unfulfilled Mission of Christianity Horace Greeley. 50 

A Death Scene... Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 60 

The Tale of the Woodbine Miss Julia Fletcher. 62 

The Minstrel and his Bride Mrs. Caroline M. Sawyer. 65 

Ruth S. C.E. 85 

To Come Day Kellogg Lee. 87 

Earth and Heaven Miss Louisa M. Barker. 90 

The Last Lay Miss S. C. Edgarton. 133 

The Unforgotten Miss H. J. Woodman. 138 

The Comet Mrs. L. J. B. Case. 140 

The Last Look Mrs. J. H. Scott. 151 

A Prayer at Night S. C.E. 153 

The Convalescent Mrs. E. A. Bacon. 155 

Winter and Spring Julius Dodd. 169 

Phantoms Miss M. A. Dodd. 172 

Leonore. Miss S. C. Edgarton. 174 

The Prisoner's Dream Miss H.J. Woodman. 214 

The Tempest Mrs. C. M. Sawyer. 217 

The Actual Henry Bacon. 219 

Scene in a Grave-Yard Miss S. C. Edgarton. 235 

Brief Lessons of a Journey J. G. Adams. 246 

Simplicity S. C. E. 263 

The Lily of the Vale Miss C. A. Fillebrown. 266 

The Connecticut Valley J. G. Adams. 293 

The Poet's Mission E. H. Chafin. 296 

My Idiot Brother D. B. Harris. 308 

Touch not the Flowers. Mrs. C. W. Hunt. 310 


Subjects. Painters. Engravers. Page. 

Frontispiece. Connecticut River J. Burt.. . . . .. . .O. Pelto*. 

Vignette Title O. Pelto n. 

*- Ruth and Naomi T. B. Rbad....,0. Peltox. 85 

** The Convalescent Beaume....,.,,0. Pelto n. 155 

„.=- Simplicity Sir J. Rztnolds.C. Philips. 263 







" It 's of no use trying any longer to make any 
thing of her," cried Mrs. Scranton, putting on 
her glasses with an angry jerk, and rummaging 
a large work-basket, filled with soiled articles of 
dress, for her knitting. " I have got almost to 
wishing she were not my child ; and I sometimes 
wonder how she can be, or yours either. I am 
sure none of our folks ever acted like her about 
any thing. I never heard of a Higgins or Scran- 
ton wanting to spend all their time with books 
and posies, or in running about the fields and 
woods, or of being so pesky proud as to want 
every thing slicked up about them, as she does. 
I am glad none of the other children take after 


her. Ben wont touch a book no more than a 
snake, nor Mime either ; and as for flowers, 
Hetty pulled up the last four-o'clocks yesterday, 
and I was glad on 't, much as Miss Bookworm 
cried about it ; for she would always have some 
of the flaunting things in her hair, or fingers, 
when I wanted her to do any thing, and I was 
tired of seeing them. I really wish such a thing 
as a flower or book had never been made. It 
was but a few minutes ago that I went into the 
buttery, where I sent her an hour ago to wash 
dishes, and there she was, wiping plates and 
reading at the same time. She does n't earn the 
salt in her victuals, and that 's the truth ! If we 
could only get her off upon some one that does n't 
know her ! I am clear out of patience with her 
refusing young Jennings ; such a nice little farm, 
and a good house and barn on it, all paid for — 
and then two of the children could have gone 
with her, and saved me so much work. She 
has n't common sense, and that 's the truth ; but 
they say there is a black sheep in every flock, 
so I s'pose we '11 have to put up with it." 

At this moment a door opened, and the object 
of the affectionate mother's vituperations entered, 
looking very little like the animal to which she 
had just been compared ; or, indeed, like the off- 
spring of the uncouth beings before her. 


a Mother," said she, in a faltering voice, as if 
expecting denial or reproach, " I have done the 
work; may I take a ramble in the woods? I 
will take knitting- work with me, and be back in 
an hour." 

u No, not a step shall you go ! " was the an- 
swer. " How should I know what you are gad- 
ding off there for, every week of your life. I 
will take care, and keep an eye upon you here- 
after. I have no notion of having our family 
disgraced by such a senseless thing as yourself; 
and I have not forgot the time you were seen 
running down the lane with the finely-dressed 
gentleman that Mime said you were so nearly in 
love with ; the Millers have n't got done talking 
about it yet." 

The face, neck, and even arms of the girl 
grew crimson at these words. "Mother," said 
she, in a voice piercingly bitter, " I have borne, 
and had determined to bear, every thing from 
you. Such intimations as these, however, I will 
not bear. I shall go to the woods to-day — I 
shall go to-morrow, if I choose, and every day — 
and will return when I like ; but under your 
control I will no longer be. Your abuse and 
insult have broken the tie between us. I am no 
longer your daughter." 

Mrs. Scranton half arose to her feet, as if to 


administer the usual admonition of a blow ; but 
apparently changing her mind, she sank back 
with a loud laugh, and complimented " Miss 
Katy " on the fine speech she had made ; while 
her father, who began to be roused from his 
intoxication by the loud talk of his wife, asked 
his daughter if she could not repeat some of the 
poetry found under her pillow that morning. 
Without a word of reply, the indignant girl took 
from the clothes-press a tattered book, a pair of 
stockings she was knitting for her youngest 
brother, and putting on her sun-bonnet, went 
hastily out of the house, and made her way to 
the dense forest that skirted her father's farm. 

Poor Kate Scranton! Never had she traversed 
that green path with such a hurried step or an- 
guished heart, before. The quick voice of con- 
science reproached her for the language with 
which she had addressed her mother, and it re- 
quired the remembrance of all the wrongs that 
had been heaped upon her from her birth, to re- 
concile her to the unnaturalness of her conduct, 
or restore a particle of her self-respect. Fortu- 
nately for the process of self-reconciliation, it 
was no difficult task to recollect that these wrongs 
and abuses had, within the past two years, in- 
creased to a degree quite beyond the power of 
her patient, loving nature to endure. 


It may not be amiss, at this point of a narrative 
intended to chronicle feelings rather than events, 
to glance at the causes of the scene in which we 
have seen fit to introduce our heroine. In order 
to do this, it will be necessary to deal with 
certain peculiarities characterizing her family, 
which, however unpleasant to discuss between 
writer and reader, are absolutely indispensable 
to a mutual understanding. 

Mr. Scranton was the descendant of a long 
line of ancestors bearing the same melodious 
name, whose habits and dispositions had varied 
so little for several generations, as to make it a 
proverb, that " a Scranton ivould always be a 
Scranton." This proverb was true to the letter ; 
for no intermarriages with families of different 
breeding and temperament could keep down the 
family blood. The specific gravity of every 
thing in contact with it was found to predomi- 
nate ; the Scranton would come bubbling above, 
like water over heavy metals. The eccentricities 
of this family were avarice without thrift, petty 
meanness in the pecuniaiy department, total bar- 
renness in the intellectual region, with a corres- 
ponding hatred of schools, and every species of 
intellectual and moral improvement ; a total dis- 
regard of order and regularity in every thing, 
with a tendency to perpetual indolence. 


What seemed rather singular, they manifested 
a kind of pride in view of these hereditary traits. 
Mr. Jake Scranton, father of Kate, was often 
heard to boast that he had never an ancestor 
who could more than read and write his own 
name ; and his wife (he was fortunately linked 
with a congenial spirit,) frequently declared that 
her children were all regular Scrantons ; that 
none of them would learn their A, B, C, without 
being whipped ; they hated books like pison, and 
had no notion of being u dressed up," whatever. 

These assertions came less boldly, however, 
when little Kate had attained her eighth year, 
for she had, by that time, passed the stage of 
premonitory symptoms, and given indubitable 
evidence of having that incurable disease called 
a mind. In a word, they discovered she was not 
a Scranton, but a lusus natures in the family. 
She did not look like them ; she did not act like 
them ; she had not the large, turn-up nose, the 
wide mouth, nor the sallow complexion, and low 
forehead. She loved adverse things — things 
that had never been tolerated in the Scranton 
philosophy — nature, books, order, neatness, re- 
fined manners, and, worse than all, she loved to 
be loved ! Poor Kate ! she had better have been 
born among the Esquimaux, or, with the unfor- 
tunate Riley, gone into captivity to the Arabs. 


Mr. Scranton was the owner of a large, rich- 
soiled farm, which had descended to him from 
his great grandfather, and which, by his pecu- 
liarly ingenious management, yielded his family 
bread, and a surplus sufficient to furnish a few 
yards of coarse calico and factory-cloth per 
annum, and an occasional pound of tea and 
sugar, though the female part of the house usu- 
ally contented themselves with a beverage of 
sweet-fern and sage, without sweetening ; while 
the male portion luxuriated in the delicacies of 
cider and whisky. The fences and buildings 
of this farm, originally miserable, were ever out 
of repair ; and all things about it, taken together, 
realized admirably the sketch of " Unthrifty," in 
the old Webster spelling-book. The windows 
of the house, which was a high, narrow one, 
with steep roof and broken porch, were always 
stuffed with old hats and worn-out clothes. The 
kitchen and stoop were let to pigs and poultry ; 
and even the " best room " was the receptacle 
of tattered quilts, mammoth skeins of tow and 
woollen yarn, and ornamented with strings of 
birds' eggs, and caricatures of various animals, 
done in pokeberry and pigweed, and framed by 
strips of shingles, glued together at the corners. 

Kate had a remarkably keen perception of the 
proper and the beautiful, and the daily contem- 


plation of these outrages upon taste and decency, 
instead of deadening that perception, only seemed 
to increase its intensity, until disgust became the 
inseparable companion of her at-home life. At 
the age of ten, she begged her mother to let her 
work out ; she felt willing to do any thing to 
free herself from the squalid wretchedness of her 
situation. But such a thing was not to be thought 
of, her mother said. Who ever heard of a 
Scranton's living out? Such a disgrace should 
never, through one of her children, come upon 
the family ; and she wondered " Katy" could be 
so low-minded. 

The poor girl had but one alternative, which 
was, to spend as much of her time as possible 
apart from her family, whose coarse vulgarities 
grew daily more disgusting. To accomplish this, 
she begged all the out-of-door drudgery, such as 
milking the cows, bringing wood and water, and 
even helping her father and brothers in their 
haymaking, — digging potatoes, any thing that 
gave her communion with the green fields, and 
bright, blue sky. Being an expert knitter, she 
was allowed an occasional ramble in the woods, 
by promising not to idle away her time. These 
were to Kate seasons of special delight. She 
had learned to knit and read at the same time, 
by laying a twig across the leaves of her book to 


hold them down ; and many a happy day had 
she spent in this manner, drinking in knowledge 
and poetry from every thing around her. 

This state of things, however, was too joyous 
to last long. Her mother and sisters began to 
suspect her of too much enjoyment ; and, in con- 
sequence, began a series of petty annoyances 
and persecutions which nearly drove the poor 
girl to distraction. She was kept closely con- 
fined to the house, obliged to do the kinds of 
drudgery she most disliked, eat the sort of food 
they knew she had almost loathed from infancy, 
and listen to conversation that made her delicate 
mind shudder. 

The faults of the whole family were laid upon 
her. If an accident happened, it was, somehow, 
Kate's carelessness. If any thing was mislaid, it 
was Kate's forgetfulness. " She never thought 
of any thing but books and fine clothes." Her 
books were hidden from her; her few clothes, of 
which she was particularly careful, were pur- 
posely soiled ; the flowers she planted under her 
window to relieve her aching eyes, were pulled 
up. She was completely wretched. She often 
wondered whether Cinderella could have been 
more so ; and then Cinderella's mother was a 
step-mother. There was but one comfort for 
poor Kate in her trials, beside her little brother 


and pet lamb, which were the only animate things 
she really loved. She could sit at her window 
by moonlight — not being allowed a candle lest 
she should read — and scribble on the blank 
edge of some newspaper, in the form of verse, 
the burning, melancholy thoughts which op- 
pressed her. This would, for a time, relieve her 
overburdened heart. It was to a scrap of this 
kind that her father alluded, which, having been 
discovered by her sister, and deciphered by the 
united efforts of the family, had been ironically 
sung and repeated to her by nearly every mem- 
ber. Kate bore all with the fortitude of a mar- 
tyr, until her mother's stinging remarks, when 
she inly determined to leave her home, and abide 
the consequences, whatever they might be. 

It is not to be supposed that one lovely as Kate 
Scranton, — for lovely she was, very lovely in 
face, air, person, — could reach her eighteenth 
year without admirers from among that sex over 
which beauty holds such indomitable sway. She 
had many in her own neighborhood ; but they 
were of the coarser sort, and she turned from 
them with disgust. Not so, however, with one 
she had known abroad. The only event in her 
monotonous life had been a four weeks' visit to a 
cousin, living in a city-like village, some distance 
from her father's. This cousin contrived, by the 


aid of her own wardrobe, to give the poor girl, in 
spite of her rusticity, quite an interesting appear- 
ance. She became acquainted with a young 
lawyer of some eminence, with whom, almost 
without knowing it, she thought she might pass life 
happily under any circumstances, so much were 
his thoughts and feelings in unison with her own. 

This feeling was, at the time, fully reciprocated 
by Mr. Herbert. He admired, nay, he loved the 
artless, feeling girl, and was on the point of tell- 
ing her so, when -an officious friend whispered 
him, " a Scranton will be a Scranton." The 
spell was broken. Had it not been, a profes- 
sional visit at her father's, at the time he overtook 
the blushing girl in the lane of which her mother 
spoke, would have deterred one of his fastidious 
nature from any serious step. Kate felt, when 
he had gone, that all hope was over. Neverthe- 
less, when, three months after, she read his mar- 
riage to another, a pang shot through her heart 
which brought her senseless to the floor. 

This was not the only conquest her beauty had 
effected during her visit. Mr. Staunton, a 
widower without a family, an excellent match, as 
all the mammas declared, had made her, while 
with her cousin, a lawful tender of his hand and 
estates, which she unhesitatingly rejected. With 
this, however, he was not satisfied ; and she had 


since received from him several letters, urging 
his suit, none of which she had thought of an- 
swering, except one of great importunity, re- 
ceived the day before the one in which we have 
introduced her, to which she had determined to 
return an unappealable negative. 

Now, however, the matter seemed to strike 
her in a different light ; for, as she hurried past 
the black-stump field which had always been an 
especial abhorrence, her features seemed work- 
ing with some unusual resolve ; and she at length 
exclaimed with sudden energy, " I will marry 
him ! There is no other way ; and what does it 
matter — when that dream can never come again 
— what does it matter what becomes of me ? 
Though I may never love him, I can at least 
perform the kind duties of wife and sister, and I 
shall get rid of these galling chains. I will 
marry him." 

Kate passed swiftly the soft red-clover fields, 
without once glancing at them, or at the little 
lamb who was trotting patiently at her side, and 
turning upon her an occasional look of mute 
wonder, at not receiving his accustomed words 
of endearment. Poor Kate was too much agi- 
tated to notice any thing. Tears fell at every 
step, and she wondered why people should think 
it a hard thing to die. Tears were as natural to 


her as rain to an April cloud ; but she possessed 
a wonderful faculty of controlling them in the 
presence of others. She was never suspected of 
being that very interesting character, a weeping 
young lady, though scarcely a day passed with- 
out her having a hearty cry, all alone by herself. 
The poor girl wandered about all that day 
among her dearly loved haunts, like one bewil- 
dered. It was quite evident she never expected 
to visit them again. She bathed her brow in the 
little spring overhung with goose -brier and witch- 
hazel ; she pulled the moss from an old flat rock 
where she had often sat ; and took some little 
white pebbles from the mountain brooklet, and 
put them into her book for mementoes. She 
walked the dim, shady, velvet wood-path far as 
it went, and then clambered up a steep, rocky hill 
beside it, till she reached a little recess made of 
laurel and birch, where she had often passed the 
day in reading, and gazing on the valley beneath. 
Here she seated herself as usual, and opened 
Hervey's Meditations ; but she could not read. 
She gazed on all the dear old trees around, and 
down into the little valley, with its low, vine- 
covered cottages, and the blue, sparkling river, 
winding so gayly among them. She looked off 
upon the blue Alleghanies in the distance, their 
lofty ridges rising one above another, till they 


seemed like lines of pale, cold clouds, stretched 
across the horizon. 

" O, that I could stay here forever ! M exclaim- 
ed Kate, enthusiastically, as her eye wandered 
from one object of interest to another. There 
were the small, picturesque islands of the river, 
where she had often been to cull anemones and 
blue-bells in the spring, and in harvest-time the 
large, brown beach-cherry, and low, purple, 
dewy wild grape. There were the sloping, peb- 
bly banks, where she had so often searched for 
Indian arrows, and other aboriginal curiosities ; 
and there, the line of tag-alders, where she had 
spent many a Saturday morning in pulling silver 
tassels from the long boughs, and in wringing 
willow twigs to make whistles for her little 
brother. Kate looked on all, on every thing ; on 
the old spire-like Lombardy poplars, the broad- 
spreading black walnut, the little willow-shaded 
coves, the strawberry knolls, the choke-cherry 
ridges, the smooth clover pastures, all sleeping 
calmly in the afternoon sunlight, as if there were 
no such things as trials and vexations in the world. 
She looked as a miser might be supposed to look 
upon his gold for the last time, and again ejacu- 
lated, " O, that I might stay here forever ! " 

There was one spot, however, still to be taken 
into the survey, — the miserable habitation of her 


father. As her eye fell upon this, the events of 
the morning rushed fully upon her mind, and she 
could not avoid a fresh outburst of grief. It was 
sundown when the wanderer reached home. 
She was received with rather more than the 
usual quantity of taunts and sneers. Of this she 
was rather glad than otherwise. It strengthened 
her resolution of leaving home, when one kind 
word would have broken it. 

In the course of the evening, Kate, with 
some difficulty, succeeded in mustering writing 
apparatus, and framing a note, very little to her 
satisfaction, as is usual in such cases, to Mr. 
Staunton, her widower-lover. " I wish his name 
were not quite so much like my own," mur- 
mured she, as she folded and directed the mis- 
sive which seemed to her about as much like a 
death-warrant as any thing she could think of. 
" Staunton ! Scranton ! They sound dreadfully 
alike. Kate Staunton, however, is not quite so 
horrible as Katxj Scranton, which our people 
have persisted in calling me ever since they 
knew I preferred the sound of Kate." 

We are tempted to betray so much of our 
heroine's confidence as will show her straight- 
forward way of disposing of a matter which 
many of our highly bred misses of the present 
day would have refined and metaphorized until 


the actual meaning were lost, and also as a 
sample of brevity to those who are in the habit 
of having their love-epistles of " linked sweetness 
long drawn out." Here is the letter. 

Mr. Staunton : 

Sir, — I have thought better of your proposal, 
lately, and have determined, on certain condi- 
tions, to accept it. The conditions are these : 
First, the marriage ceremony shall not be per- 
formed in my father's house, (where else, I care 
not;) second, I shall be allowed, with my 
parents' permission, to take with me my young- 
est brother, and educate him as I see proper ; 
lastly, none of my family shall be invited, or 
allowed to visit me until I desire it. 

I will not deceive you, sir, in my object for 
acquiescing in your oft-repeated proposal of 
making me your wife. It is no love I bear, or 
ever may bear yourself. My home is disagreea- 
ble to me, and I see no other way of leaving it. 
(If you think this mercenary, you can act accord- 
ingly.) Let me, at the same time, assure you, 
that I do not love another, and that I hope to be 
able, (if you treat me kindly,) in time, to bestow 
upon you the affection necessary to insure, at 
least, your fraternal esteem ; and I am willing to 
promise the faithful performance of a wife's 


duties, far as I know them. If your mind is not 
changed by the nature of this communication, 
you can come for me any time within two weeks. 
I shall be ready. Yours, 

Kate Scranton. 

We hope none of our readers will entertain as 
harsh an opinion of our heroine, after the perusal 
of the above, as she did of herself. "It is too 
heartless," said she, in a self-deprecating tone. 
" I almost hope he will be disgusted with me, as 
he certainly ought to be." 

Mr. Staunton was, however, so far from being 
disgusted with the abrupt straightforwardness of 
the young rustic, as to start for her immediately. 
There was the anticipated quantum of astonish- 
ment, expostulations, reproaches, sneers, and 
abuse, on his arrival at the Scrantons 1 , Kate 
having been perfectly secret in her plans ; but it 
all ended in the widower's carrying off his prize, 
accompanied by the little brother, the family 
wisely concluding, after the boy had vehemently 
declared that he would live with Kate, and no 
one else, that it was best to let him have his own 
way, as it would make one less to work for. 
The ceremony was performed at the house of a 
friend of Mr. Staunton, a minister living on their 


Kate was delighted with the elegance of her 
new home, every thing was so rich, so appropri- 
ate. It was astonishing with what ease and 
grace she bore her new dignities, as if, as the old 
housekeeper observed, she were really born to 
them. The usual round of parties, rides, calls, 
etc., were gone through with, greatly to the eclat 
of the young bride, and delight and admiration of 
her husband, who had never courted any thing 
so much as a beautiful and intelligent wife. It 
was matter of astonishment to many, that one 
bred in the low manner poor Kate had been, 
could so readily comprehend and practise all the 
formula of fashionable life, without embarrass- 
ment, or any appearance of affectation. They 
did not know that she had ever been a dweller 
apart, and was no more of her family than if 
never with them ; and that her society had 
been the ideals of Walter Scott, and J. Fenni- 
more Cooper. 

Some months passed away before the whirl of 
dissipation allowed Mrs. Staunton to look within 
and around herself, enough to calculate her 
■chances for domestic happiness. When she did, 
she was surprised to find that many of her old 
heart-aches had given place to new ones but 
little easier. True, she was surrounded by all 
that was refined, orderly, neat. Her fine ear 


was never shocked by vulgar voices, or vulgar 
expressions ; her discriminating eye was never 
pained with outrages upon taste and propriety. 
She was treated with all the outward tokens of 
respect and admiration. She was even openly 
proclaimed the star of M., and evidently held a 
high place in the heart of her husband. What 
more could she desire ? Alas for a worldly 
nature, God has wisely ordained it shall never 
be satisfied. 

Kate soon looked deep enough into the mate- 
rial set around her, to find it all hollowness ; 
and she sometimes thought she would prefer 
even the coarse, open enmity of the associates of 
her former life, to the refined, but secret and 
piercing envy and hatred of those of her present. 
The unkindness Kate experienced in early life, 
from a source whence every one expects the 
deepest affection, operated upon her exceedingly 
sensitive nature like a slow but concealed poison, 
which needed but the slightest accident to de« 
velope. A few insinuations from those " parlor 
serpents " who crawl into all families, had led 
her to doubt the sincerity of nearly all around 
her ; and she shrank from their overstrained 
civility as if a pestilence lurked beneath. 

It required, however, very little fortitude to 
bear this trial, compared with others. The 


skeleton was in her own house. Mr. Staunton 
was a man about twice the age of his present 
wife, highly educated, wealthy, of dignified, 
gentlemanly manners, possessing, if not a warm, 
at least a kind heart, and keeping up a style of 
living almost princely. Notwithstanding all this, 
Kate discovered, — that most harrowing of all 
discoveries to a woman of sensibility, — that there 
could be no congeniality between them. By 
congeniality, she meant that understanding which 
persons of ardent temperament have of each 
other's feelings, as if by intuition ; that oneness 
of perception, that seeing with one eye, hearing 
with one ear, feeling with one pulsation of the 

There was nothing that Kate, from her youth 
up, had courted like sympathy ; and it was only 
by imagining a kind of understanding between 
herself and various objects in nature, that she 
had hitherto contrived to exist. If she wept, she 
was sure the flowers at her feet bowed their little 
heads. If a feeling of joy came over her heart, 
the stars understood her ; there was a sweet 
smile in their soft glances. She had often 
thought if she had a sister, or cousin, or any one, 
who could always be with her to reciprocate 
these emotions, to whom she could speak the 
very thoughts of her heart, read the beautiful 


ideas of her favorite authors, she should be per- 
fectly happy. Should she ever marry, she 
thought all these heart-cravings must be satis- 
fied. Simple, ignorant Kate ! 

Mr. Staunton had a very large library. His 
wife was delighted with it ; but when she began 
to speak, with all her enthusiastic heart, of the 
dear passages of her favorite authors, she saw 
her husband turn away with a cold smile, and 
her heart sank within her. But she might be 
mistaken ; she would try again. Alas ! his 
pulse always ticked with the clock, his nerves 
never became excited, and Kate soon found him 
to be, without hope of reformation, that horror of 
sensitive persons, the man who feels, and speaks, 
and acts, by rule. It seemed unaccountable to 
Kate how he could be so different from herself; 
one who had looked up, from childhood, to the 
same beautiful sky, had listened to the same 
thrilling music of nature, and read the same soul- 
stirring books, to heighten in her mind the effect 
of this enthusiasm. 

She was often thrown into the society of him 
who had awakened her youthful fancy — Theo- 
dore Herbert ; and the contrast was so perfect as 
to give acute pain. O, that he were like him, 
she often found herself sighing before she was 
aware of the nature of her thoughts. And then 


she turned from him with a shudder, and won- 
dered how she could so far forget herself. Wo 
for the woman who finds herself making invidious 
comparisons between her husband and another ! 
she has little hope of happiness thereafter. 

When Kate first saw Mr. Herbert, after her 
marriage, she took a very natural pleasure in 
showing him that a Scranton could be something 
besides a Scranton ; for the story had been 
whispered to her, and she was not sorry to ob- 
serve that he did not think her defects of person 
so very conspicuous. But when, upon farther 
acquaintance, she saw that he felt a sincere and 
rather too hearty admiration for her, she en- 
deavored to avoid his presence. This, however, 
was difficult. Herbert was the intimate friend 
of her husband, and there was, consequently, 
scarcely a day that they did not meet. It was 
not that she feared becoming too deeply inter- 
ested in this man. With all her faults, and they 
were many, as the reader has discovered, Kate's 
truly feminine nature shrank from the slightest 
approach to an unwarranted regard for any one 
beside her liege lord ; and she felt that she 
could defy the machinations of the powers of 
darkness in this particular. But she dreaded the 
effects upon her heart as it regarded her deter- 
mination of becoming attached to her husband. 


She dreaded the effects of this perpetual contrast 
of eloquence with reserve, of warmth with in- 
difference, perception with obtuseness ; and she 
rightly conjectured if Mr. Staunton were re- 
moved from these depressing influences, it would 
be a much less difficult task to discover, or, if 
necessary, to imagine those qualities which are 
necessary to fix and retain the affections. 

This, however, was a forlorn hope. There 
was not a day that Kate did not find herself turn- 
ing for sympathy to one who was — not her hus- 
band ; and those bitterest words of a bitter heart, 

" Yet I was formed to be 
So richly blest ! " 

if unspoken, were ever playing upon her lips. 

Kate was again wretched, completely so, 
when her little brother, the only being she had 
ever truly, deeply loved, was taken from her by 
death. She wept, she repined ; but there was 
one thing she did not do — she did not pray. 

Poor Kate ! she found some relief in her old 
occupation of penning poetry ; and the world 
crowned her with laurels. Her name was a 
word of admiration through the land, but she was 
still wretched — 

She " turned from " all fame " brought, to all it could not bring." 


Her husband's manner grew indifferent to- 
wards her. She was not surprised at this. She 
had long been satisfied that his first admiration of 
her was but a 'passing fancy, and the conscien- 
tiousness of her nature prevented her attempting 
to awaken feelings she could not reciprocate. 
This, with all his obtuseness, he could not help 
perceiving. There arose, however, no misunder- 
standing between them. There seemed to be a 
tacit agreement to avoid each other's presence 
as much as was compatible with their relative 

Mr. Staunton appeared perfectly satisfied with 
having a woman of beauty and talent at the head 
of his establishment ; and his wife, with all her 
pent-up emotions, yearning to overflow into a 
kindred bosom, tried to satisfy her cravings for 
sympathy with the heartless amusements of 
fashionable life. But again she felt herself a 
dweller apart. She was with the world, but not 
of it. She talked, she smiled, she visited, she 
received visits ; but her warm heart was shut, 
the treasures of her mind locked from prying 
eyes ; for the world had learned her the applica- 
tion of the homely proverb of the pearls, and she 
turned from it with her original disgust. She 
despised its honeyed flattery, she shrank from 
its utter hollowness, and almost wished herself 


again the inmate of her father's wretched man- 
sion, where coarseness was not clothed in soft 
words, nor cruelty united with deception. Poor 
martyr of a mistaken philosophy, dying of thirst, 
with all the waters near ! diseased in heart and 
soul, with the great Physician bending over thee 
unperceived, and thy hand, resolutely, with the 
caprice of a sick babe, rejecting his medicines ! 
How many of the inhabitants of this vast globe 
are, at this moment, in the same miserable situ- 
ation ! 

It may be wondered at that Kate Scranton had 
yet learned nothing of religion. The truth was, 
she had seen so much of its counterfeit, as to 
doubt the existence of the reality. 

In her youth she had been familiar with those 
devastating tornadoes called protracted meetings, 
whose power was shown in exciting the lower 
passions, and whose fruits were intolerance, and 
the display of coarse sanctimony. Since, she 
had been acquainted with professors, on the one 
hand, leading in fashion and wasteful extrava- 
gance ; on the other, with those ridiculously con- 
scientious regarding every thing pertaining to 
dress, style, etc., and rather, in effect, advocating 
a falling back into the customs of barbarism. 
Kate could perceive nothing spiritual in either 
class ; and, without an effort to investigate the 


claims of Christianity for herself, she became the 
most unhappy of intelligent beings, without hope 
and without God in the world. 

It was a soft, cloudy morning in July, that 
Mrs. Staunton threw on her calash, sauntered out 
of her house, and took a by-lane leading out of 
the village, and over a small hill. It was called 
the lumber-road, being traversed chiefly by wag- 
ons, loaded with boards and shingles for market. 
There were many wild, sweet wood-paths, lead- 
ing into the dim forest, from this highway. Into 
one of these Kate diverged for her morning walk. 
She had often taken it before, for, at its extremi- 
ty, on a small, cleared plat of grass, shaded by 
a large black walnut, was the grave of her little 

The land was her husband's, and the child had 
been buried there at her solicitation. It was the 
favorite resort of her lonely hours. She had 
shed her bitterest tears there, — tears of disap- 
pointment, remorse, and despair. On the present 
morning, her husband had left town to be absent 
some days ; and, with that loathing of society 
which latterly had greatly increased upon her, 
she had determined to pass the day in melan- 
choly, beside her dead. 

A rude seat had been made by her order near 
the grave ; and there she seated herself, with a 


deep-drawn sigh, scarce glancing at the blush- 
ing wild-roses that almost touched her cheek. 
The country about was uneven, and thinly wood- 
ed ; but the trees were very large, and shaded 
the softest green grass imaginable. Here and 
there were thick clusters of wild honeysuckle, 
rose, and sweet-brier ; and, occasionally, the 
bright blossoms of the tulip tree were seen, en- 
tangled with the dark foliage of the long ivy. 
Beneath the far-stretched boughs of a large white 
pine, was a small spring, whose waters glided so 
silently and slowly over the velvet grass as 
scarcely to bend its delicate blades, and empty- 
ing its silver treasures into a mimic lake, whose 
glassy surface was sparkling with the flowers of 
the white pond-lily. 

Kate gazed listlessly, despairingly, upon every 
thing around her. She felt no longer that flush 
of delight which was once awakened at every 
glow and tint on nature's diversified page. She 
knew that her heart had grown old, that the 
freshness of feeling had prematurely faded, and 
left her the prey of a fruitless past and hopeless 

a I shall never love any thing again," sobbed 
she, placing her hands over her eyes, as if to 
shut out the sight of what had become indifferent 
to her. u There is nothing in the world worth 


loving ! All is soulless, changeful, decaying ; 
death is the finisher of all. O, what is life, and 
why was I made a recipient of it ? A curse, 
and only a curse has it been ! " 

" Woman ! woman ! " said a voice near her, 
" talk not thus. Life a curse ? I, an old, home- 
less, childless man of eighty winters, tell thee, 
that whatever may have been thy afflictions, life 
is not a curse. It should, and may be to every 
thinking, breathing, creeping thing, a blessing, 
and the greatest of blessings." 

Kate had, at the first sound of his voice, 
sprung to her feet in alarm ; but seeing no one 
but a tottering, white-haired man, she sank again 
to her seat, and resumed her thoughtful attitude, 
without deigning a reply. 

" My daughter," continued the old man, in a 
subdued voice, taking off his broad-brimmed hat, 
and advancing nearer, " forgive my harshness. 
I had heard much of the coolness of your spring, 
and stepped out of my way, a little, to enjoy its 
deliciousness, when your words — pardon again 
my harshness — came so gratingly to my ear." 

His listener interrupted him with a haughty 
stare. " My dear child," continued the old man, 
in a still more kindly tone, " reserve that expres- 
sion for those whom it may profit ; it is wholly 
lost upon me. An old man, who has been to 


the verge of the grave with all the bufferings 
which sin and misfortune could rally against 
him, is not likely to be discomfited by a lady's 
frown, especially when that frown cannot con- 
ceal that the wearer carries a wounded spirit, 
which can only be healed by the words of the 

Kate grew ashamed of her moroseness, and 
begged the old man to be seated, and rest him- 
self, which he accordingly did. She prepared 
herself for the usual homily upon sinning away 
the day of grace, and striving to make peace 
with God while the lamp should hold out to 
burn ; but she found it had been a work of 
supererogation. The old man never touched 
upon those subjects. He descanted, with an 
eloquence which surprised his listener, on the 
scenery around them, and pointed out many 
beauties which her eye, all practised as it was, 
had never detected. There was a refinement, a 
spirituality in his words, which sounded to her 
like the solemn, beautiful prophecies of the an- 
cient seers of God, (for her love of the sublimely 
poetical had made her acquainted with the writ- 
ings of the prophets,) and she listened with 
bowed head, while he unveiled to her many 
hidden treasures of the metaphysical world, and 
until he came to the all-absorbing truths of 


Christianity, when the intense earnestness of his 
manner caused her to watch his varying counte- 
nance, as he poured forth, in burning language, 
the hopes and joys of the religion which the Man 
of Sorrows had died to establish. 

" My dear child," said the old man, " there 
has been dust heaped upon Christianity since the 
days of the fathers. Beautiful and elevating was 
it then, in all its ministrations. It made no ap- 
peal to the lower propensities. It had no cords 
but those holy ones of its founder, which every 
purified heart was so glad to hold in its embrace. 
Even thus it is now to those who can put aside 
the veil of prejudice, and look into its beautiful 
truths. Search the Scriptures, and learn by the 
eye and the understanding, rather than by the 
ear and the passions. Were it not for this sun 
of our moral atmosphere, how many thousands, 
like yourself, would speak of life as a curse, who 
are at this moment, perhaps, thanking God on 
their knees for its heaviest afflictions. My poor 
child, I see that this is all dark to thee. So 
might it seem to many who have risen many 
degrees in the heavenly kingdom ; but to me, 
who, in scholastic lore, am, perchance, the least 
in the kingdom of God, it is as plain as the 
shining of yonder sun. One little sentence ex- 
presses it all, — • unceasing trust in the goodness 


of God. By this have I learned to set at defi- 
ance all the ills flesh is heir to." 

" Perhaps," said Kate, " the philosophy of 
your creed has not been fully tested." 

" Has it not ? " said the old man, sadly, 
" Listen. I began life with wealth ; it was wrest- 
ed from me by fraud, and the wife of my bosom 
was murdered by my enemy as the greatest 
vengeance he could wreak upon me. I loved 
her next my Saviour. My children were swept 
off by a pestilence ; my relations deserted me in 
my misfortunes ; my friends turned their backs 
upon me, and I became a stranger in my own 
land ; but my watchword was, Trust in God, and 
it carried me through. I knew all must be for 
the best, though darkness sometimes settled over 
me like a heavy cloud." 

" But did you fulfil," said Kate, " that hardest 
of Christian injunctions, — did you forgive your 
wife's murderer ? " 

" Did not Christ forgive his ? " replied the old 
man, quickly. " I aided him in escaping the 
fangs of justice. I knew that vengeance be- 
longed to the Lord ; and even in the exercise of 
this Christian requirement, proved the divine 
origin of the gospel. I had, according to the 
prophecy of the Saviour, heaped coals of fire 
on my enemy's head, and he became mine, and 


the Redeemer's friend. He confessed his crime, 
with tears of contrition ; and, with the full oppor- 
tunity I had procured for his escape, surrendered 
himself into the hands of justice, and died on the 
scaffold, an humble, rejoicing disciple of the Lord. 
Since then, I have had no abiding place, but 
have journeyed from country to country, speak- 
ing to all who would listen, of the blessings of 
the Master's love ; and (I would not say it boast- 
ingly) it has pleased God to bless my labors 
abundantly. I have seen many a sad heart 
made glad by the words of eternal life, many a 
despairing soul filled with joy unspeakable from 
above. But let me not speak of these things. 
I would breathe to thee, pale mourner, a few 
messages from him who spake as never man 
spake, and his blessing rest upon thee. Think 
not I seek a history of thy woes. I know, full 
well, the heart-burnings of the worldly ; full 
well, the history of all who walk not in the light 
of the new Jerusalem. They have no rest, day 
nor night, who worship the beast and his image. 
They are harassed continually with the sting of 
sin, the goadings of conscience, the emptiness of 
all worldly things, the fear of death, the horror 
of annihilation. My poor child, it was to free 
us from all these miseries that the Redeemer 
poured out his blood. Has it never occurred to 


thee that his pitying eye might be watching thee 
in all thy bitter conflicts ? Believe me, my dear 
child, it has. No tear of thine has ever fallen 
without his observation and sympathy. He is 
ever with thee ; he will never forsake thee, and 
waits but the awaking of thy better nature to 
reveal all the glories of the celestial world, 
through faith, to thy spiritual gaze." 

The old man arose. " Wilt thou reject," said 
he, with much emotion, " the love of this, I may 
say, only friend ? for this world is a cold one, 
and it cannot furnish thee such another. I must 
leave thee, dear child, but not till I have begged 
from him a blessing to rest on thee when I am 

The old man fell on his knees. Kate, scarce 
knowing what she was about, did the same. At 
first, a feeling of humiliation came over her 
when she found herself in a position she had 
never been in before, and then a blush of 
shame that such a thought could find access to 
her heart. But the low-breathed prayer of the 
kind old man made her forget every thing but 
the holy presence in which her soul told her she 
was ; and when she arose from the earth, the old 
man had been some time gone. 

u Is not this all a dream ? " said she, hastily 
putting on her calash, and going toward home. 



But the words had impressed themselves too 
strongly on her heart for fancy. How fully 
were the secrets of that heart laid bare for her 
inspection, and how did she shrink from the 
survey ! Selfishness — cold, uncompromising self- 
ishness — she discovered to have been, hitherto, 
the mainspring of all her actions. She reviewed 
the events of her past life, and shuddered at the 
utter worthlessness of all her thoughts and ac- 
tions. Who had been made happier and better 
by her exertions ? Who could say she had re- 
turned good for evil ? Who could say she had 
given consolation to the dying, or whispered 
comfort to the sorrowing ? And how had she 
dishonored her parents ! Cruel, coarse as they 
were, they were still her parents. How had 
she, from an unrestricted desire for kindred feel- 
ing, rewarded her husband, who had heaped 
upon her all the refinements and luxuries of life ! 
Above all, how had she crucified her Saviour, 
if, indeed, she had a Saviour ! but this she has- 
tened home to ascertain. 

Kate took not her tearful eyes from the sacred 
Record till the sunlight shone through her win- 
dow ; and how much more beautiful seemed that 
sunlight to her than ever before. The night had 
been one of prayer and bitter anguish, but it had 
worked out her salvation. She had become con- 


vinced of truth, righteousness, and judgment, and 
hope threw a sacred halo over the bitterness of 
the past; and when she threw open the shut- 
ters in the morning, she thought the air had 
never felt so balmy, the flowers, and the grass, 
and the blue sky had never looked so tenderly 
beautiful as now. Resurrection from the dead, 
and immortality, found written on every thing ! 
and an angel voice seemed continually whisper- 
ing in her ear, " The love of God — the love of 
God ! " Kate thought it was the voice of her 

Her husband returned in the course of the 
day, and she threw herself into his arms, and 
told him all - — every thing. 

" Well, my dear," said he, in his usual calm 
way, after she had got through, " what does all 
this amount to ? " 

Now came the first test of her faith. The 
bitter waters came bubbling to her eyes, but she 
forced them back, and replied with a smile, " O, 
nothing, only I shall make you a better wife." 

" Who has called you a bad one ? not I, cer- 

Kate was glad he turned away at that moment, 
for she feared the weakness of her nerves ; " but 
no," said she, with energy, " I have tasted the 
heavenly bread, and will not go back to the 


beggarly elements ! " And she kept her deter- 

How precious now, seemed every moment of 
her time ! She had ever been careless of her 
health ; now, she was extremely careful of it. 
She feared death would come ere her ten talents 
were faithfully accounted for. Her first step 
was to visit her family, and beg their forgiveness 
for her treatment. They could not understand 
her, but this gave her no uneasiness. She knew 
the day was coming when the veil must be re- 
moved from all nations, and they would know 
her as she was. She labored to make her home 
pleasant to all within it, and she succeeded. 
Her efforts did not stop here. She became, in 
a short time, all things to all persons, that she 
might win souls to Christ ; but this was done so 
quietly, so craftily, that no one suspected her 
design. She was not known as that ever dread- 
ed person who goes from house to house, making 
inappropriate remarks on religion, at all times 
and seasons. The importance of her object 
taught her wariness, as it did the apostles, and 
she did no harm where she could do no good. 

Silently, but resolutely, did she pursue her 
good work, until there was a perfect reforma- 
tion in M., without any one suspecting where 
it originated. The follies and extravagancies 


of the fashionable class were moderated, for her 
vigilance penetrated every where. She feared 
not contamination from the sinful and degraded, 
but deemed that the field in which her Master 
had labored should be the place for the servant. 
The industry of the poor quickened, the despon- 
dency of the unhappy exchanged for content- 
ment, the hopes of the sinful raised and purified, 
and the hearts of the sick and dying made joy- 
ful, — these were the fruits of her ministration. 
There was no good work that she was not ready 
to perform, whether it consisted in advice, ap- 
propriation of her own money, or labor with her 
own hands ; for she knew that there were many 
services to be performed for the poor and dying 
that money could not procure, and she had 
easily disposed of her fastidious notions regard- 
ing physical drudgery. 

Happy Kate ! when she contrasted the joyous 
activity of her present life with the miserable 
indolence of the former, she could hardly believe 
it a reality. There was one thing, however, to 
keep her constantly reminded of it, — her hus- 
band's continued uncongeniality of heart and 
habit. Yet even this, in time, she learned to 
disregard ; and when alone, could sing, with a 
smile, half joyous, half melancholy, 


" O, hope not, ask thou not too much 
Of sympathy below ; 
Few are the chords whence one same touch 
Bids the sweet fountain flow." 

She learned to be satisfied with those more re- 
liable qualities which he so abundantly possessed 
— good sense, practical morality, and the most 
amiable of tempers ; and would often whisper to 
herself, — " It is better as it is ; his equanimity 
of thought and feeling is just the proper regulator 
for my foolish excitability ; and I am confident 
that his excellent nature is winning upon my 
affections every day. He is, of all others, just 
the husband I need ; just the one my better judg- 
ment would select." 

She was no longer a Dweller Apart, save from 
the sinful corruptions of the world. These she 
sedulously excluded from her heart, and lived in 
the pure practices of Christianity, as serenely 
happy as she had once been restlessly miserable. 



Softly the sunbeams gild the distant mountain, 

Veiling with purple light its frowning crest, 
Flinging their radiance o'er the silvery fountain, 

That mirrors back heaven's richly 'broidered vest. 
How beauteous are the sunset-banners, waving 

Their glory-pencilled folds along the sky; 
While liquid pearls the folding flowers are laving, 

And the bright lamps of love are lit on high. 

The gorgeous drapery that veils the azure, 

Is folded as no other hand could fold, 
Save His, who bids the whirlwinds do his pleasure, 

And in his grasp the slumbering thunder holds. 
Whose chariot rolls above the whirling billows, 

Borne by the darkling pinions of the storm; 
Whose throne is based on Truth's enduring pillars, 

While love and power his high behests perform. 


It seems as if the angel-band, descending 

From the bright realms of glory far away, 
Their flight to some fair orb awhile suspending, 

With heaven's own radiance crowned the parting day; 
So softly bright, the soul with sweet emotion 

Bows reverently, as if before that shrine, 
Where seraphs veil their brows in deep devotion, 

And myriad harpers raise the chant divine. 

With low and silvery tones the gales are sighing 

Their farewell echoes through the quivering boughs, 
Like the hushed spirit's moan, when friends are dying, 

Ere yet the icy garland twines their brows. 
Darkness and shadow o'er the vales are creeping: 

Blendings of twilight veil the crystal rill; 
The lowly wild flowers, gentle tears seem weeping, 

And mystic influences the spirit thrill. 

Sweet star of even, on the horizon beaming, 

How beautiful thy teachings to the soul! 
From the mysterious depths of azure gleaming, 

Thou speak'st of climes where floods of knowledge roll. 
Like the blest star, that beams in smiling splendor, 

When round us sweep the shadows of the tomb; 
Wooing us upward, where, in dazzling grandeur, 

Love's glorious sun dispels each shade of gloom. 


In this blest hour the spirit fondly lingers 

Above the hallowed mounds, where sweetly rest 
The cherished dead; and memory's busy fingers 

Thrill with sad touch the wildly throbbing breast. 
And as the rainbow tints are fading slowly, 

And night her jewelled coronet puts on, 
The spirit trusts with resignation holy, 

To meet them on the resurrection morn. 




Washington City, May 4, 1842. 

* # * It was but yesterday, that I stood in the 
great commercial emporium, and listened pen- 
sively to the rustling tread of its hurrying thou- 
sands. Here passed the slave of commerce, the 
devotee of gain, with vacant gaze and introverted 
perception, his brow working unconsciously as 
he plodded over the thousands he hoped to win, 
yet dreaded to lose by some casual turn of the 
wheel of fortune ; scanning, perchance, the sky, 
to note what prospect of tempest or favoring 
gale awaited his vessel now approaching the 
coast, hurrying to the bulletin for news, or to 
the price current to learn the chance of profit or 
loss on his ventures. Beside him trudged un- 
heededly the laborer with his swart brow and 
stooping frame, toiling on sturdily, though weari- 


ly, through the rugged day, with thoughts of the 
wife and little ones whose narrow domicil and 
scanty comforts his arduous, unremitted exer- 
tions barely suffice to provide, and thinking 
sadly, shudderingly, of the period just at hand 
when his present employment shall cease, to be 
succeeded, he knows not how or whence. And 
now, there pass me the lawyer and the broker, 
each weaving in his brain the spider-web in 
which some poor unfortunate shall soon be en- 
closed, and gloating joyously over the anticipated 
triumph which to another shall be ruin. But list ! 
a longer stride, a more heedless air : here rushes 
by a reckless, half intoxicated sailor, just landed 
from a voyage round Cape Horn, and hastening 
to spend, in a few days' riot and debauchery, the 
hard-won earnings of as many years, and then 
return to his monotonous round as penniless as 
ever, and one degree more debased and brutal 
than before. There prances knavish bankruptcy 
in its chariot, spattering the threadbare garb of 
some ruined creditor who goes before on foot ; 
here trips fashion in lace : there hobbles beggary 
in rags, as, with counterfeited limp and loathsome 
travesty of the human form, it whines out its peti- 
tion for alms. * * * And now 'tis evening, 
and the great avenues blaze with light, as the 
windows of the palaces of Traffic flash with gems 


and are radiant with the display of costly fabrics. 
The entrances to the haunts of dissipation are 
luminous and inviting to their victims, and from 
the dark purlieus where they have shunned the 
glare of day, the votaries of sin come forth to 
flaunt their little season. In the narrower and 
less frequented paths, darkness holds partial 
dominion, and riot, crime, dissipation, and fierce 
contention, have recommenced their reign, des- 
tined, it may be, to outwear the night. Such is 
a rude and hasty presentment of the moral as* 
pects of a day in Christian New York, where 
thousands are assembled (very properly and 
laudably, I doubt not) to devise the ways, and 
contribute the means to carry the gospel and its 
attendant blessings into all parts of the globe. 

And now I sit in Washington, where the great 
and the honorable of the land are assembled to 
shape its destinies. Their voices reach me in 
my narrow chamber, the rattle of their wheels is 
borne freshly to my ear, as they roll over the 
broad avenue. 

The commanding might of mind is here. The 
orator, whose fervid utterance in the senate has 
reverberated through the vast extent of our coun- 
try, rocking the hearts of millions from the 
Aroostook to the Sabine, is here. The dema- 
gogue, base idol of a multitude's thoughtless 


hosannas, flatterer and flattered, corrupter and 
corrupted, is here — the enchantment lent by- 
distance, dispelled by contact — his essential 
nothingness and selfish aims gleaming out abun- 
dantly through the paint and patchwork of coun- 
terfeit patriotism, in which he has arrayed him- 
self. The gaudy blazonry of military pomp, of 
naval prowess, is here. Here the sleek and 
satisfied official jostles the shrinking and cringing 
office-hunter from the walk. Still, as ever, amid 
the shows of luxury and waste, stalks the gaunt 
form of penury and want, pining for a crust, as it 
gazes through blazing windows upon the super- 
fluous banquet on which thousands have been 
squandered. Gliding through, checkering all, 
are the dark figures of the low-browed children 
of Cain, bearing ever their unmistakable badge 
of servitude and degradation. Here, the gambler 
and the debauchee — honorable and eminent, it 
may be — are preparing to waste the midnight 
hours in orgies whereof the speedy issue is 
shame, debasement, and death. Such is the 
spectacle presented by the enlightened metrop- 
olis of this Christian land, whence missionaries 
are radiating to every corner of the world, in 
this nineteenth century since the advent of the 
Saviour. In the long interval, the Christian faith 
and worship have widely diffused themselves, but 


where is the Christian idea? Where lingers 
the kingdom of universal holiness and love which 
Jesus came to establish on earth ? 

Where is it? I see around me the stately 
and costly edifices in which Herod and Dives 
proceed weekly, with scrupulous punctuality, to 
worship God in pomp and luxury, as followers 
of the carpenter of Nazareth, the fishermen of 
Galilee. Christian forms and observances are 
thick around me : where is the Christian spirit ? 
I recognize it not in that lordly pile ; not within 
the folds of that ample surplice ; not within those 
richly-cushioned pews, which an humble, thread- 
bare stranger may not enter without encounter- 
ing a frown, or an African, without provoking a 
curse on his amazing presumption. Yet, possi- 
bly, in that poor Ethiop's heart the divine emo- 
tion has found unsuspected welcome ; it may 
glow there as he shrinks tremblingly into some 
obscure corner of the edifice, and listens raptur- 
ously to truths which not even the preacher 
comprehends. Perhaps, in some dingy con- 
venticle, its material utterance drowned beneath 
discordant ejaculations of folly and frenzy, of 
fanaticism and absurdity, the incense of a gen- 
uine devotion is ascending, unmarked, to the 
throne of the everlasting Father. But is this 
the fulness of the kingdom which Christ came 


to establish ? Shall such occasional and solitary- 
instances be held to overbear and set at nought 
the sad reality of a world lying in wickedness ? 
Do we not know that evil and anguish, oppres- 
sion and wretchedness, wrong and despair, are 
abundant, nearly as ever, among the children of 
men ? And is not the world yet prepared to 
realize that, in the fulness of the Christian dis- 
pensation is contained the remedy for all evil, — 
for all that is not incident to our mortality, even 
here ? How long shall it be practically regarded 
as a form of worship, and a code of difficult 
observances ? Why not rather accept it as a 
divinely appointed means of entire and imme- 
diate emancipation from the ills of our earthly 
condition ? Let not the idea be hastily con- 
demned as extravagant ; let us soberly con- 
sider it. 

When Christ directed the inquirer to sell all 
his goods, and give the avails to the poor, — 
when he declared that the rich should with ex- 
treme difficulty enter the kingdom of heaven, — - 
when he related the parable of the pearl of great 
price, etc., did he merely utter extravagant 
hyperboles ? The disciples did not so under- 
stand him, as we learn by their having " all 
things in common," even after his death. Did 
he propound these rules in exclusive reference to 


some imminent exigency ? So it does not ap- 
pear, nor can it, unless the command to love our 
neighbor as ourself be understood to have a like 
limited and now lifeless significance. Why, 
then, should the church, or assemblage of be- 
lievers, prefer the interpretation of Ananias and 
Sapphira to that of Peter and Paul ? Why should 
Christians famish, — nay, why should men perish 
for lack of food, while in Christendom is abun- 
dance ? Why should believers be driven to 
solicit and subsist on the freezing charity of our 
political organizations, while within the church 
is ample wealth ? This, surely, is directly con- 
trary to the precept and example of the apostolic 
age. I have not traced the history minutely, yet 
I am confident that the first idea of a universal 
and permanent provision for the poor and desti- 
tute, originated in that age, with Christ and his 
apostles ; that it continued a work of the church, 
and not at all of the state, down to a compara- 
tively recent period ; and that it lapsed into the 
hands of the latter through the increase of tem- 
poral knowledge and wisdom, and the decline of 
Christianity as a distinct and substantive power 
over the hearts and actions of men. If so, what 
is the obvious deduction ? 

But a mere provision for the destitute is not all 
that is contemplated by the idea of Christianity. 


In that idea I clearly recognize the germ of a 
great social renovation. In teaching mankind 
no longer to hate, distrust, and destroy, but to 
love and cherish each other as themselves, a 
stupendously beneficent revolution was involved. 
Alms-houses for the destitute, go but a short way 
toward the fulfilment of the great law of love. 
Not merely insurance against extremest misery, 
but provision for positive and essentially equal 
happiness, is implied. And why may not this be 
realized ? Why should not the Christian dispen- 
sation become the basis of a new and benignant 
social order, from which want and wo, fraud and 
wrong, discord and opposition, shall be banished, 
and the highest attainable good of each member 
be striven for and secured ? Why may not such 
an order be formed, which shall secure to each 
individual not only abundant food, and clothing, 
and shelter, but education, also, — intellectual 
development, and all the means of rational enjoy- 
ment, — requiring of him, in turn, that equal and 
just contribution of his efforts toward the general 
weal, which the community or church shall re- 
quire, and which his own capacities and prefer- 
ence (very rarely, if unperverted, at variance) 
shall indicate ? And why may not our race thus 
emancipate themselves from the bondage of con- 
straint, and privation, and suffering, in which 



they so long have labored and groaned ; and, 
guided and upheld by the law of universal love, 
rise speedily and surely to the primal condition, 
while the long scourged and desolated earth shall 
grow verdant and beauteous again ? 

This is a vast and inspiring theme. I should 
not venture to speak so confidently on the hope- 
ful side of it, had not loftier and serener spirits 
sounded its depths, and vanquished its difficulties. 
These have shown that the renovation of society 
on the basis of the Christian idea is not visionary, 
is not fantastic, is not impracticable. Nay, un- 
doubted experience, not merely in the repeated 
and enduring instances of the Shakers and other 
ascetic communities, but in those of many of 
larger faith and clearer knowledge, has demon- 
strated this cheering truth. There is no longer a 
necessity, there is hardly an excuse for social 
evil and degradation. The means of avoiding or 
vanquishing them are within the reach of nearly 
all. The system of association, or sharehold 
property, blended with attractive industry, pro- 
mulgated by Fourier, does away the last objec- 
tion, that a social order adverse to the present 
must generate improvidence and idleness, and 
so perish through human infirmity. Its vast 
economies will bring wealth within the reach of 
all, while affording them the amplest means and 


opportunities for intellectual, moral, and social 
elevation and enjoyment. 

Carlyle casually remarks, that " a man, able 
and willing to work, yet unable to find employ- 
ment, and thence lacking the means of subsist- 
ence, is the saddest sight under the sun." What 
shall we say of a Christian famishing in a land 
of Christian affluence, because the means of 
earning bread 4s not afforded him in our chaotic 
and moving social order ? Surely the soul of 
such an one must appear as an accusing angel at 
the bar of Eternal Justice against the community 
in which such a tragedy was enacted. Yet such 
a calamity has taken place even in this country. 
Let us hope that the time when it could be is 
nearly at an end, and that the knowledge of its 
possibility will soon linger only as a fearful tradi- 
tion in the homes of the children of men. 



T is evening's hush; the first faint shades are creeping 
Through the still room, and o'er the curtained bed, 

Where lies a weary one, all calmly sleeping, 
Touched with the twilight of the land of dread. 

Death's cold gray shadow o'er her features falling, 
Marks her upon the threshold of the tomb; 

Yet from within no sight nor sound appalling, 
Comes o'er her spirit with a thought of gloom. 

See ! on her pallid lip bright smiles are wreathing, 
While, from the tranquil gladness of her breast, 

Sweet, holy words in gentlest tones are breathing; 
" Come unto me, and I will give you rest! " 

Night gathers round — chill, moonless, yet with tender. 
Mild, radiant stars, like countless angel-eyes, 

Bending serenely from their homes of splendor 
Above the couch where that meek dreamer lies. 


The hours wear on ; the shaded lamp burns dimmer, 
And ebbs that sleeper's breath as wanes the night, 

And still with looks of love those soft stars glimmer 
Along their pathways of unchanging light. 

She slumbers still, and the pale, wasted fingers 
Are gently raised as if she dreamed of prayer; 

And on that lip so wan the same smile lingers, 
And still those trustful words are trembling there. 

The night is done ; the cold and solemn dawning 
With stately tread goes up the eastern sky; 

But vain its power, and vain the pomp of morning 
To lift the darkness from that dying eye. 

Yet heaven's full joy is on that spirit beaming, 
The soul has found its higher, happier birth, 

And brighter shapes flit through its blessed dreaming 
Than ever gather round the sleep of earth. 

The sun is high, but from those pale lips parted, 
No more those words float on the languid breath, 

Yet still the expression of the happy-hearted, 
Has triumphed o'er the mournful shades of death. 

Through the hushed room the midday ray has wended 

Its glowing pinion to a pulseless breast; 
The gentle sleeper's mortal dreams are ended; 

The soul has gone to Him who gives it rest ! 



I grew by a lowly cottage door, 
And kind hands twined me the lattice o'er. 
5 T was the soft spring-time, and the air was sweet 
With the breath of the flowers, which sprang up to greet 
The first approach of the" radiant queen, 
As she lightly passed o'er the pathway green ; 
She came to watch o'er her children fair, 
And smiled to see me upspringing there. 

Then the summer came, with its laughing hours, 
To sprinkle its pathway with light and flowers; 
It robed the sky in a softer blue, 
And unfolded the roses which round me grew. 
Fair children came at the close of day, 
Around the door of their home to play ; 
So I bolder grew, and peeped in to see 
What a pretty home that cottage might be. 

I have watched o'er its inmates full many a year, 
Seen the beaming smile, and the pride-veiled tear; 


The sun looks in through my twining wreaths; 
The soft night air through my foliage breathes ; 
I witness the joy which affection lends 
To the blissful meeting of parted friends ; 
And all in vain should I strive to tell 
How often I hear the sad farewell. 

I have listened oft to the tone of mirth 
From the joyous group round the household hearth ; 
And in silence bowed, as the voice of prayer 
Arose in the power of devotion there. 
I have watched the couch of the weary child, 
And lulled its rest with a murmur mild, 
Till it gayly woke at the dawn of day, 
With my wealth of wreathing leaves to play. 

I still kept watch o'er the cottage fair, 
When a dark-browed stranger entered there; 
With a high, stern look, " the unbidden guest " 
Entered to bear the beloved to rest ; 
The light of joy from that home had fled, 
When I looked on the brow of the early dead, 
And never more, in their infant glee, 
Came forth those loved ones to play with me. 

I sighed farewell to the youthful bride, 
As she left her home by the green hillside. 
I had twined in wreaths round her infant brow; 
I had heard her utter the bridal vow, 


And I knew she would leave her sweet youthful home, 
No more 'mid its quiet haunts to roam ; 
She turned away with a half-hushed sigh, 
With a smiling lip, and a tear-dimmed eye. 

I see not the forms which in youth's bright hours 
Were wont to gather the summer flowers ; 
They have passed away from their low-roofed home, 
Some in the clime of the south to roam, 
Some to dwell 'mid the city's din, 
And others the lonely grave within; 
Time, with its changes, can ne'er restore 
Their infant mirth by the cottage door. 

The bird still comes to my shading leaves, 
And within their shelter his soft nest weaves ; 
The graceful boughs of the old oak tree, 
Bend gently over to speak to me ; 
The summer roses around me spring, 
And the humming-bird comes with his glancing wing, 
But a shade hath passed o'er the sunny earth, 
For I sigh in vain for those tones of mirth. 



Bard and minstrel ! What associations of 
beauty and delight do those names of another 
and long vanished age awaken in the mind ! As 
our fingers trace the magic words, what gorgeous 
pictures of princely banquets and splendid tour- 
neys, of dove-eyed sweetness and queen-like 
beauty, of panoplied knights and careering steeds, 
float in dreamy and bewildering mazes through 
the brain ! 

In the old romantic days of chivalry and 
knightly valor, there was no art more cultivated 
and more honored than that of the minstrel, or 
minne -singer. The minstrel, with his harp and 
his fiery glance of love and inspiration, was 
more potent to stir the heart of nations than the 
monarch on his throne. Nobles, princes, and 
even kings, ofttimes forsook their toils and their 
dangers, to indulge in the beautiful dreams of 
poesy ; or, uniting the harp with the sword, went 
forth, with lance in rest, to do, as fortune might 


direct, good battle for the oppressed, or to chant 
the praises of beauty in the bower of their lady- 

It was, perhaps, in the latter part of the twelfth 
century, in the early days of the crusades, that 
this beautiful art attained the zenith of its glory ; 
and it is a well-attested tradition, that England's 
chivalrous king, the lion-hearted Richard, was 
himself a minstrel of no ordinary merit. Fos- 
tered and cherished by so great a monarch, the 
atmosphere of his presence was the paradise of 
minstrels, and he who could weave the lay and 
strike the harp with the greatest skill, might bask 
in the smiles of youth and beauty, and rest se- 
cure under the favor of royalty, without a fear 
for the future. 

Those were glorious days for the minstrel, 
but it was, perhaps, unfavorable to the true in- 
terests of the art that its course was so bestrewed 
with flowers ; for the flint of misfortune is often 
necessary to strike out the sparks of genius, and 
notwithstanding all the patronage of royalty and 
nobility, minstrelsy began almost immediately to 
decline. The noble and romantic spirit which 
had animated it was lost ; selfishness crept in to 
mar its purity, and it became gradually prosti- 
tuted to unworthy purposes, until it was evidently 
verging to its fall. 


Thus more than a century went by, when a 
star arose in Mentz, a city of Germany, which 
shed a new brilliancy over the tarnished and 
half-buried art ; something of the spirit of the 
early bards returned, and, in the person of Hein- 
rich Von Meissen, seemed about to bring back 
the earlier and purer days of song. Obscurity 
rests over the parentage of this remarkable 
young man, and whether he was a prebendary 
of Mentz, a doctor of theology, or a simple, in- 
dependent burgher, who elevated himself to the 
art from a love of it, history and tradition are 
alike undetermined. But, that he possessed a 
true and deep feeling for the noble and the beau- 
tiful, is undoubted ; and, as he suddenly entered 
upon the almost deserted path of the minne- 
singer, and the light of his genius beamed out 
from the darkness which had so long shrouded 
the domain of poesy, all Germany was enrap- 
tured. Most of his tender songs were dedicated 
to the Virgin Mary, — as the highest ideal of 
womanly virtue, — and to the praise of noble 
ladies. On this account, his contemporaries be- 
stowed upon him the expressive name of Frau- 
enloo ; and by this name was he known and 
honored by posterity. 

The age in which he appeared was ripe for 
the manifestation of a spirit like his, as was 


evident from the reception he every where met 
with from the gentler sex. The highest and 
most exclusive circles were opened to him ; 
ladies of the most distinguished rank, the wife 
and the matron, the young, the beautiful, and 
the fair, all vied with each other in rendering 
honor to the enchanting minstrel, the graceful 
and high-hearted herald of female virtue. 

As might have been expected, there were 
many who felt for him more than the sentiments 
of mere gratitude and friendship ; but, insensible 
to every earthly passion, he seemed entirely 
wedded to his art, until, finally, an attachment 
sprang up between him and a young lady of 
noble birth, and of rare mental and personal 
charms. They were betrothed, but the union 
was never consummated, for, but a few hours 
before the period appointed for the solemnization 
of their nuptials, death dissevered the bands of 
their betrothment, and the minstrel was no more. 
All Germany was plunged into mourning at his 
loss ; he was buried with rare and singular hon- 
ors, and from a beautiful tradition still extant in 
Germany concerning that event, I have woven 
the following fragment. 

It was a lovely morning in June ; the rising 
sun was just tinging the summits of the rocky 


cliffs, which, like giant fortresses, studded, at 
frequent intervals, the green shores of the beauti- 
ful Rhine. Here and there a truant ray rested 
on the lofty spire of some towering dome, and, 
reflected from its gilded cross, gleamed forth 
through the morning mist, like a beautiful but 
solitary star, pausing to gaze on the glories of 
the morning landscape. A Sabbath stillness, 
broken only by the sweet and fitful warblings of 
the wild- wood songsters, or, perchance, by the 
thoughtless whistle of some loitering herdsman, 
reigned over the green hills and broad valleys of 
the Rhine. 

It was on such a morning as this, in the year 
1317, that a young man, habited in the peculiar 
and quaint fashions of that day, but in a garb 
whose richness and ornaments indicated that the 
wearer belonged to the order of knighthood, sat 
leaning against the stern of one of those small 
boats which are constantly seen on every con- 
siderable river, and which, manned by a couple 
of indolent boatmen, crept sluggishly up the tide. 
He was apparently a traveller, and on the occa- 
sion alluded to, seemed to have no other earthly 
occupation but to watch the sparkle of the waves 
as the oars dipped lazily into the water, an occu- 
pation which every now and then, as the drowsy 
influence of the scene stole over him, he inter- 
rupted by a languid and weary yawn. 


" Are the people all dead in this part of the 
country ? " he, at length, in a sleepy tone, in- 
quired. " It is strangely still this morning." 

The words had scarcely left his lips when he 
was interrupted by the sudden tolling of many 
bells, whose solemn tones boomed heavily on the 
surrounding stillness, and rolling onward, in deep 
reverberations, far down the shores of the Rhine, 
died away on the distant wave. 

The young man started from his dreamy atti- 
tude, while the wondering boatmen, with their 
oars suddenly suspended in the air, gazed silent- 
ly in each other's faces, 

" What can be the meaning of this, at so un- 
usual an hour ? " inquired the young knight. 
The boatmen silently shook their heads ; but the 
young knight, after a moment's pause, motioned 
with his arm towards the shore. " Let us land," 
said he ; "I am curious to know what is going on 
in the city. Steer for the shore." 

The obedient boatmen instantly turned the 
prow of the little bark towards the land, and the 
young man was, in a few moments, within the 
walls of one of the most ancient and majestic 
cities of the Rhine. Led by the sound of the 
nearest and heaviest bell, he entered the street 
leading to the grand cathedral, when a long and 
dense procession, moving in the direction of the 


church, met his sight. On a nearer approach, 
he perceived that it was a funeral train, and that 
by far the greater proportion of the persons who 
composed it were females. Women of all grades 
and conditions in society seemed- united by one 
common feeling, and moved by the same all- 
controlling impulse. With a strange and un- 
wonted disregard of the claims and observances 
of rank, the proud and titled daughters of prince- 
ly houses moved on, side by side, with those of 
unpretending burghers. All were clad in mourn- 
ing garbs, and shrouded in veils that nearly 
swept the ground. Their arms were crossed 
upon their breasts, and their heads bowed down 
with a deep and universal sorrow. 

Eight young ladies of the most exquisite 
beauty led the procession, who were likewise 
habited in mourning. They were distinguished 
from the great mass by the absence of the veil, 
and by a chaplet of white lilies which encircled 
their heads. Yet strange and unwonted seemed 
the task which they had assumed, for they bore 
upon their shoulders a coffin which was gar- 
landed with the richest wreaths of mingled 
roses, lilies, and myrtle. 

But there was one mourner in the procession 
who appeared to attract the attention and the 
deepest sympathy of all. It was a young lady 


who followed next to the bearers, and entirely 
alone. Tall and elegant in her proportions, and 
splendidly attired in a dress of the purest white, 
she seemed fitted rather for a bridal than for a 
burial. Her white satin robe was confined at the 
waist by a zone of diamonds, and bracelets of the 
same precious jewels shone upon her white and 
beautifully rounded arms, which, bared to the 
elbows, were reverently crossed upon her breast. 
A chaplet of white lilies, like those of the bearers, 
rested upon her brow, and over all was thrown a 
transparent veil of the most delicate silver gauze, 
which, falling in rich folds around her figure, 
descended almost to her feet. Her step was 
faltering and uncertain, and, with her eyes fixed 
intently on the ground, she seemed lost to all 
around her. 

Low, murmuring whispers passed from mouth 
to mouth, while the vast multitude, moved by a 
simultaneous sympathy and respect, uncovered 
their heads and bowed low, as the fair young 
mourner passed. 

The procession entered the cathedral, and the 
young knight, who was a deeply interested 
spectator, followed it. The walls of the spacious 
temple were adorned with banners of alternate 
black and white, and the clear light of more than 
a thousand waxen torches poured in a full flood 


of splendor upon the spot where the beautiful 
young bearers at length deposited their burden. 
A deep silence reigned throughout the vast as- 
sembly, when the words, " Oremus Domino ," 
pronounced in a rich, sonorous voice, that was 
heard even in the remotest corner of the wide 
cathedral, broke the stillness. The dense multi- 
tude heaved like a troubled sea, as the bearers 
knelt around the coffin, and a deep, suppressed 
sound, like the roar of distant waters, rose from 
all parts of the edifice. A few moments, and all 
was again silence, when the young ladies, rising 
to their feet, gathered in a circle around an open 
grave, where, amid the pealing voices of the 
choir, and the grand and majestic tones of the 
organ, the coffin was lowered into its final rest- 

The sad task was accomplished, the young 
bearers stepped back, and the grave was cov- 
ered, when a change passed over the spirit of 
the music. The voices of the choir had ceased ; 
the grand and lofty peals of the organ died away, 
and the waving multitudes in that vast cathedral 
grew silent as the grave around which they were 
gathered, as strains, harmonious as the harps of 
angels, stole sweetly on their ear. It was a 
prelude to a dirge, and, as the listeners hushed 
their very breath to catch the melting strains, the 


bearers, each holding wreaths of mingled lilies 
and myrtles in their hands, advanced, and, slow- 
ly pacing two by two around the grave, chanted 
a funeral dirge. Their voices were soft and 
low, and as they blended together in a melody 
whose touching sweetness accorded well with the 
wondrous harmony of the prelude, it seemed to 
the entranced assembly like the plaintive moan- 
ings of some forsaken spirit. 

The dirge was finished. The bearers, one 
after another, dropped their garlands upon the 
grave, and, drawing back, formed a wide circle 
around it. Silence again filled the cathedral, 
and all eyes were turned upon the young lady 
whose white garments formed so singular a con- 
trast to the sable garbs worn by all others. She 
slowly entered the circle, and throwing aside her 
veil, knelt alone by the grave. Her face was 
turned towards the stranger-knight, who stood 
but a few paces distant, and as she clasped her 
hands, and lifted her large, dark eyes to heaven, 
he felt that he had never looked upon a creature 
of such surpassing loveliness. She seemed but 
in the dawn of womanhood, yet there was in her 
pale, young face a something which seemed not 
of earth. Blended with the traces of intense 
sorrow, there was stamped upon her lineaments 
a look of holy resignation, a seraphic calmness, 


which partook already of the spirit- world. Her 
lips moved as if in prayer, but no sound escaped 
them, and the young knight saw that tears were 
trembling on her long, dark eyelashes. Her 
orisons were at length ended, and rising from the 
marble floor, she slowly removed the wreath 
from her brow, and pressing it to her lips, and 
to her heart, dropped it upon the grave, and 
turned away. But a sudden emotion, too strong 
to be resisted, chained her departing footsteps, 
and, turning once more towards the spot which 
held all of earth that was left of what had been 
so dear to her , heart, she bent her face to the 
ground, and, with a wild burst of passionate 
despair, pressed her lips upon the cold marble 
which covered the grave. One moment she 
yielded to the deep torrent which overwhelmed 
her ; the next, it was controlled ; and rising, she 
paused as if summoning strength to depart. Her 
lips seemed striving for words, and the breath- 
less spectators leaned forward, that they might 
not lose her faintest accents ; but " Adieu, Hein- 
rich ! " in tones whose touching sadness melted 
the hearts of all who heard them, was all that 
she could utter. Her dark, spiritual eyes were, 
for one moment, turned in speechless anguish to 
heaven, when the shining folds of her veil fell 
around her, and accompanied by the bearers, 
she left the cathedral. 


The music of the choir again commenced, 
while the long train of mourners, two by two, 
approached the grave, some scattering flowers 
upon it, some pouring out from golden cups the 
richest wines of Germany, while some even 
drew their jewels from their fingers, that they 
might leave them as a tribute of their affection 
and respect upon the resting-place of him whom 
they so deeply mourned. Amid tears and lam- 
entations, the mourners at length slowly sepa- 

Anxious to make some inquiries respecting the 
interesting scene he had witnessed, the young 
knight, as he left the cathedral, approached a 
lady whom he had observed as a prominent 
mourner in the procession. 

" AVill you tell me," said he, " noble lady, the 
name of him whose remains you have honored 
with so distinguished a burial ? Was it a mighty 
prince, who ruled his kingdom with wisdom and 
moderation ? Or was it some knightly hero, 
who, in the battle or the tourney, achieved deeds 
worthy of the arm of knighthood, and demanding 
the gratitude of his country ? " 

The lady regarded her interrogator with some 
surprise, as, with a gentle and earnest voice, she 
replied, " Honored be the prince whose hand, 
wisely and gently, yet powerfully, holds the 


reins of his state ! Honored be the knightly- 
hero whose brave sword faithfully defends the 
cause of innocence and virtue, and is ever drawn 
at the call of justice ! Honor and fame be theirs ; 
but he whom we have borne to this place of rest 
was surrounded by no earthly glory. No mar- 
tial trumpet heralded his deeds, yet immortal 
and unfading are the laurels which encircle his 
brow. Wielding no conqueror's blade, his hand 
bore only a golden harp, but with this he won 
victory and fame in every corner of his father- 
land. Know, then, we, have borne hither a 
noble minstrel, whose immortal songs have cele- 
brated the virtues and ennobled the hearts of that 
sex which it was his delight to honor. There- 
fore have we wreathed his grave with flowers 
and laurels, the fairest emblems which nature 
offers to typify the rare beauties of his poetic 
genius. Meet it is, that to one who has so 
honored us, this last, sad offering of our gratitude 
and our love should be rendered. Meet it is, 
that with tears and lamentations we should bear 
him to his grave, for he has achieved a name 
that will live in the book of all times." 

" But what is that name, noble lady ? " ex- 
claimed the young knight. " Tell me, that I, 
too, may do him honor." 

" It is a name that has stirred the heart, 


wherever it has been heard. It is the name of 
Germany's sweetest minstrel, Frauenloh ! " 

As the young knight heard a name so honored 
and beloved, he uncovered his head in deep 
reverence, and was some moments silent. Then 
once more turning towards his companion, " Ger- 
many has lost her greatest treasure ! " he ex- 
claimed ; " a prince or a hero might be replaced, 
but generations may pass and not produce 
another Frauenlob. But tell me, if I trespass 
not too much on your kindness, who is the fair 
young creature in bridal robes ? methinks her 
spiritual loveliness is not meet for this world." 

" It is the minstrel's bride, the beautiful Er- 
mengarde Van Erstein, the fairest and best who 
was ever betrothed to noble lover. She had 
given her hand with all her young heart to him 
whom, with so much sorrow, we have laid in 
yonder grave. They were publicly betrothed, 
but the day which was to have witnessed their 
bridals numbered him among the dead. Well 
may she mourn his loss, for who is like him." 

The eyes of the lady were suffused with tears, 
and, drawing her veil over her face, she turned 
away, while the young knight paced musingly 
along towards the gates of the city, when turning 
to look once more upon the consecrated pile 
which had been the theatre of so interesting a 


scene, he beheld a solitary figure, veiled in white, 
gliding towards the cathedral. He paused to 
look after her, until she vanished within its walls, 
when, breathing a silent petition for her happi- 
ness, he left the city. But often, during his 
solitary journeyings on the Rhine, and his brief 
sojournings in the crowded cities of other lands, 
did the image of that youthful and stricken bride 
rise up before him ; and often, too, did the 
mournful echo of her last " adieu Heinrich," 
mingle in the visions of his midnight slumbers, 
and fall like a knell upon his heart. 

A year went by, and the young knight, after 
many wanderings, stood once more within the 
walls of the time-honored city of Mentz. It was 
at the same early hour as that in which he had 
entered it before, and, strange coincidence, a 
tolling bell, as on that memorable occasion, 
boomed in sacl solemnity on his ear. Secretly 
wondering at the singularity of the circumstance, 
he involuntarily turned his footsteps in the direc- 
tion of the cathedral, when, — was he in a 
dream — or did he behold the same funeral 
train which had met his vision, when, one year 
before, the minstrel was borne to his last earthly 
dwelling? There were the eight young ladies 
crowned with white garlands still leading the 


procession, but the coffin which they then bore 
was exchanged for a funereal urn, entwined 
with laurels and roses. There was the same 
graceful girl clad in her bridal robes, but her 
step was now far more slow and feeble, and she 
leaned on the arm of a young lady for support. 

The young knight remembered that it was the 
anniversary of the minstrel's burial, and instant- 
ly conjectured that the scene he now beheld was 
in commemoration of that melancholy event. 
Anxious to look once more upon that lovely face 
which had followed him through all his wander- 
ings since he had first beheld it, he hurried to 
the cathedral, and entering it before the funeral 
train, stationed himself near the minstrel's grave. 
It was adorned with many a withered garland, 
and his heart swelled with emotion as he re- 
membered by whose hand they had probably 
been placed there. The procession soon en- 
tered, and services nearly resembling those he 
had witnessed on the former occasion were per- 
formed. The urn was deposited upon the grave, 
and the same sweet dirge which had so thrilled 
his heart before, was chanted by the plaintive 
voices of the young bearers, while flowers of 
every lovely hue and delicate odor were scat- 
tered upon the grave. 

The services were nearly concluded, and the 


widowed bride, with a faltering step, approached 
the grave. She drew aside her veil, and her 
face was a second time revealed to the young 
knight ; but how was he startled at the change. 
It had lost nothing of its seraphic expression, but 
the beautiful fulness of the contour was all van- 
ished. The large, dark eyes wore a startling 
brightness, and a changing flush on the wasted 
cheek told a tale that all shrunk from perusing. 
The white arms, around which the jewelled 
bracelets now loosely hung, had lost the exquisite 
symmetry of their proportions, and they who 
looked upon her felt that her separation from her 
minstrel-lover would not be long. She knelt 
down, and as she lifted her folded hands in 
silent devotion, the waiting multitudes around 
her believed that they beheld a being already 
more allied to the spirit-world than to this. Sud- 
denly the deep silence was broken by a startling 
strain of music. The organ was touched by a 
master's hand, and a prelude, low, sweet, and 
spiritual, such as sometimes steals upon the en- 
raptured soul until we fain believe we listen to 
the vibrations of an angel's harp, breathed in 
ravishing harmony through the long arches of 
the cathedral. 

It was a passage from a favorite composition 
of Frauenlob, and one to which Ermengarde had 


often listened in the happy days of her betroth- 
ment. She had never before heard it played by 
any hand save his, and strong and deep was the 
emotion it now awakened. Her whole frame 
trembled, a bright rose color settled in her 
cheeks, and her very breath seemed suspended, 
as the entrancing strains alternately swelled and 
died upon the ear. At this moment, a flood of 
sunlight poured through the richly-stained win- 
dow full upon the minstrel's grave, and upon the 
kneeling figure of Ermengarde. Bewildered by 
the sudden brightness which enveloped her, and 
lost in the harmony and sweetness of the well- 
remembered music, she hailed them as tokens of 
the presence of some supernatural visitant. 

" Heinrich ! " she exclaimed, in tones of 
piercing sweetness, " Heinrich, my beloved, is 
it thou ? Thou didst promise to be with me ere 
I departed, and behold thou art here ! The soft 
strains of thy angel-harp are floating around me ! 
Thou art calling me in a voice that I love ! I 
come to thee, my beloved ! I come ! " 

She stretched forward her arms as if to em- 
brace the ethereal form she believed so near her; 
a smile of more than mortal sweetness rested 
upon her countenance, her head drooped upon 
her breast, and, as the young bearers sprang 
forward and received her into their arms, they 


started at their burden — it was a mould of beau- 
tiful but breathless clay ! 

Strongly tinctured with the superstitions of the 
age, and inclined, by a poetic temperament, to 
fanciful imaginings, she had died in the belief 
that the spirit of her minstrel-lover, revealed in 
the burst of sunlight, was summoning her in 
celestial music to his side. 

They laid her by the side of her betrothed, 
happier in her death than she had been in her 
separation. And let us believe that the spirits of 
the departing have visions and revealings from 
the spirit-land which we know not of, but which 
shed the glory of a brighter world over the hour 
of dissolution. 

A monument to the noble Frauenlob formerly 
stood in the cathedral of Mentz. It was beauti- 
fully sculptured in white marble, and represented 
a minstrel in a recumbent posture, with a harp 
by his side, a crown of laurels on his brow, and 
surrounded by eight young ladies holding over 
him a funereal urn. In the year 1744 it was 
destroyed by the carelessness of some workmen 
who were engaged in repairing the cathedral. 
But in the year 1783, Vogt, a favorite historian 
of Germany, and one very curious and industri- 
ous in his researches into the early histories of 


the Rhine, procured, by his influence, a new 
monument to be erected to the minstrel near the 
place of the old one. It still stands, a memorial 
of the power of song, and of the gratitude of 




" Entreat me not to leave thee." — Ruth i. 16, 

Entreat me not ! I cannot go, 

Dear mother, from thy side ; 
From thee, whose love hath been my stay, 

Since gentle Chilion died. 
O, ever true, and ever kind, 

Hath been thy matron heart ; 
And now that thou art lone and poor, 

We ne'er again will part. 


Where'er thou goest, I will go, 

Where'er thou diest, die; 
Together in one humble grave, 

Our kindred dust shall lie. 
And I will love thy Bethlehem friends, — * 

Thy people shall be mine j 
And we will kneel to praise one God, 

Before one common shrine. 


Our souls — ah, what shall part our souls? 

In ties of love entwined, 
They will defy the spells and chains 

That even death can bind. 
Then let me labor at thy side, 

And soothe thine aged years; 
I cannot leave thee, widowed friend, 

To solitude and tears. 

s. c. E. 



Sermon of eloquent warning ! 
Carol, the stars are all playing! 

Warble, that melts from the lip of the morning! 
Quaver, from seraph-harps straying ! 
Thrilling expectancy ! waking sweet voices 

In every bosom where intellect warms ; 
O, how my young spirit springs up, and rejoices, 

To breathe out its melody, drink in its charms! 
What heart is not struggling? Whose spirit is dumb? 
When all things are chanting the anthem — to come ! 

Life is the pathway that windeth. 
God's holy mount to his palace ; 

Infancy wakes at the bottom, and flndeth 
There, e'en, a rose-mingled chalice. 
The nectar is tasted — that glad little being 

Is lifting a finger to blossoms above ; 
Time brings a fresh morning — the prattler is seeing 

Delights that are kindling a sunnier love ; 
And as riper enchantments send down their wild hum, 
The laughing child panteth for pleasures — to come! 


Youth trips along in her ramble, 
Careless of sorrow and blisses; 

Now crushing a daisy; now pulling a bramble: 
Now meeting rebuffs, and now, kisses. 
With many things lovely her pathway is woven, 

Bright sunbeams are glancing wherever she turns; 
And here she might linger, where pleasure hath proven 

A light, than all others, that rosier burns. 
But here's not her dwelling-place, here's not her home. 
And the breath of her spirit still whispers — to come ! 

Age hath few charms for the tourist, 

Few scenes the rough pathway beguiling; 

Joys that were richest in childhood, are poorest ; 
Faith, Hope, and Love now are smiling. 
Love looketh down upon them that come after; 

Faith gazeth up to the summits afar ; 
Hope is on wings that exultingly waft her 

Up from the scenes where disquietudes are ; 
The angel of death lifts the gate of the tomb, 
And the soul springeth upward to raptures — to come ! 

Spirits of all that are sleeping 

Throng the next height of the mountain ; 
Dear ones their tender communings are keeping 

There, by Life's holier fountain ! 
The round of beatitude windeth them higher, 

TO COME. 89 

Perfection, and glory, and beauty increase; 
Hope lifteth new pinions, Faith sweeps a new lyre, 

And melodies wake that are never to cease : 
And, as all catch a vision of seraphim's home, 
Those harp-strings trill sweetly of blisses — to come! 

All circle up with hosannas 
To this holy summit, and linger, 

Till God and his angels descend with their banners : 
Then Christ lifts the gate with the finger 
That long hath been pointing to rapturous glories, 

And all soar away to the home of the soul, 
To mingle with seraphim, list to their stories, 

And breath hallelujahs where bright waters roll ! 
And as all through the gardens of Paradise roam, 
They still sing of glories and beauties — to come! 



The ideal world, dear Sarah, is not all " such 
stuff as dreams are made of." Why should it 
be, when half of what we term the real is im- 
palpable to mortal sense ? 

It is not the village life beneath my window 
that interests me now. It is a home so quiet, 
that the noisy world is scarcely dreamed of 
there ; " an eye all hazy and soft with thought," 
resting upon mine in perfect confidence ; wan- 
derings among autumn flowers, and under clus- 
tering vines ; and breathless listenings to the 
singing of a wild brook, for whose tones there 
is no imitation in music, And this is no scene 
in the world of imagination. The whole deli- 
cieuse is actually a fragment of the past ; yet for 
all that the eye may now rest upon, if it gaze 
ever so far, or all that the ear may catch, even 
if it listen, I might as well have dreamed it 
yesternight. Why, then, should our imaginings 
be all unreal ? If the beauty that we gaze upon, 


the breathing form that we hold in our embrace, 
and the words that fall upon the listening sense 
like a strain of melody, may appear, through the 
magic of time, but the pageant and the voice of 
a vision, why may not the beings of the fancy 
find embodiments among the actual and the 
present of our lives ? Ask the heart if its dear 
ones owe not the perfection of their virtues, and 
the purity of their loveliness, to the glory they 
have borrowed from the light of its own crea- 

I must have told you, in some of our hill and 
brook-side rambles, of one whom I wish you to 
see now, half enveloped in the drapery of an 
open window, and looking out upon one of the 
ten thousand beautiful scenes in the land of our 
earthly home. It may be, that it made the hap- 
piness of a summer hour in memory, to listen to 
the conversation which I am about to relate ; and 
it may be, that in some imaginative moment, I 
have given to the pure-minded being, whose 
name I must have blended with the rural melo- 
dies of your country home, the blessed task of 
scattering sunshine and roses upon the pathway 
of a departing spirit. It matters not which. 
There would be the same mingling of the reali- 
ties and the dreams of life in either. The same 
power to charm, to soothe, and to satisfy, which 


comes only from the mysterious union of that 
which we see with the material sense, and that 
which we see not but with the spiritual ; the 
present and the removed, the earth and heaven 
of our being. 

" It is not fair in you to stand so long alone 
by that open window, and looking so happy. 
Sick as I am, it could not hurt me to breathe the 
air which has given to your face an expression 
so radiant. And yet," continued the invalid, as 
she leaned upon the support so instantly afforded 
her, " if visions of earthly happiness have been 
called up by the scene on which you have been 
gazing, I ought to fear its influence." 

" Fear it not, dear one. I came here to 
sorrow for your sake, but the feeling has been 
rebuked." And she whispered over the brow of 
the fragile form she held, " O, fear not thou 
to die ! " 

" I do not fear as many do. Eternity, to our 
beautiful faith, is not filled with frightful forms 
and unimaginable horrors. Nor do I dread a 
nearer approach to that Being, in the manifesta- 
tions of whose power I have ever seen even less 
of majesty and might than of mildness and mercy. 
But I do fear, or, rather, I am unreconciled to 
leave a world which I feel myself so fitted to 
enjoy. To leave it, too, with the balm of its 


summer breeze bathing my lips, and the music 
of its ' viewless harps ' floating into my spirit, 
and calling up there such sweet response ; and 
all this but the prelude to what might be, could I 
linger on to the glorious autumn-time of earthly 
life. Gems and flowers have reflected to me the 
light of its spring landscape ; and O, the peopling 
of its shadows, and the gentle voices ! Look at 
the green verge of the wood upon yonder up- 
land. Far up in its dim aisles, the leaves are 
stirred by the breath of invisible beings, more 
worthy to be clothed in the glorious forms of 
imagination than the half human dwellers of the 
Grecian woods : the loves, the joys, and the 
graces of a purer age than theirs. Dear Mary, 
I will kneel with thee, in grateful adoration, at 
the morning and the evening service ; I will be 
happy in anticipation of the future life that is 
promised us ; but why may I not stay in this 
earthly abode, and make to myself deities of the 
lovely and the pure, nor go hence, till I can 
render fitting homage to the immaculate perfec- 
tions of the only Eternal ? " 

" Say, rather, to stay, and study and adore, a 
little longer, those perfections, as revealed to us 
in this life, if it be his will ; but set no image in 
the place of the 'Holiest of Holies.' 'Thou 
shalt have no other gods,' commands the respect 


due to supreme sovereignty. "Was it not also 
given to save us from the bewilderments of idol- 
atry ? I have often thought, how rich the reve- 
lation of truth must have been to the mind of the 
believing Areopagite, when he heard the eloquent 
apostle to the Gentiles proclaim ' the God that 
made the world, and all things therein.' What 
a splendid pageant for the mental eye, when the 
worshipped ones of visionary Greece, the high 
Olympian gods, and all the less powerful divini- 
ties of the earth and the sea retreated before the 
majesty of heaven and earth, — the one adorable 
Spirit that fills the universe. Yet now it seems 
to me that the experience might be very much 
the same to many who have received a Christian 
education, could they give up at once all their 
little idolatries, and feel that the Creator himself 
is the indwelling spirit of all those forms of puri- 
ty, and grace, and happiness, which they now 
abstractly worship." 

" But how are we to prevent our imaginations 
from seeking to animate these forms with the 
impulses of an individual life, higher and purer 
than earth's, and demanding reverence, as well 
as affection ? We have not the ethereality of a 
spirit ; we have not even ' the wings of a dove.' 
We cannot sever the invisible chain that binds us 
down to earth, and why should not the gravi- 


fating influence affect even the mind ? The 
thought, indeed, may go abroad to the immacu- 
late and the eternal ; it may revel in dreams, 
pure as a moonlighted palace of the frost-king 
upon some Arctic shore, or rich as the cloud- 
wrought drapery of a summer sunset in our 
warmer clime. It may visit stars and ages, in 
its course ; but its flight will soon be weary, and 
it must return to its local home. How oppres- 
sive will be the solitude there, if it return alone. 
And is it strange that it should wish to impart to 
the forms that want only the spiritual to become 
the household deities of the soul, some portion of 
the Promethean fire it has gathered in its daring 
flight ? So Numa went away from the converse 
of mankind, to commune with Egeria and her 
sister spirits ; so he returned to the world he had 
left, bringing with him divinities to inhabit those 
glorious forms of humanity, — the gods of the 
heathen temples. c La figure humain divinizee 
par la Paganisme, comme les sentiments de 
Fame le sont maintenant par le Christianisme.' " 
" There is a sweet and pure philosophy in 
your thoughts, but, like most of our philosophy, 
it needs that the false should be separated from 
the true, and that the true be made applicable 
to the purposes of life, and practical, by its . 
active energies. I like not that imagination 


should be denounced as bewildering by the good, 
and as lawless, by the gentle. To me, it seems 
that those who speak of it thus, know not its 
happiest use." 

" If you know that use, teach it to me. The 
best lessons I have ever learned have been from 
your lips. Tell me what influence you would 
allow it over yourself; and if you deem it not 
wise to speak of it to me, in relation to this life, 
tell me, at least, how far I may trust it in my 
musings of another." 

" Of both, my dear friend. But stay, one 
moment ; I will move the sofa nearer to the 
window ; there, sit down by me, and I will sup- 
port you, that you may not be weary. You 
can see the beautiful green woods up against 
the blue sky, the sloping hillside below, and 
glimpses of rippling waters among the meadow- 
groves at its foot. Sweet odors, and far-off 
sounds, come mingled upon the breeze that 
breathes so gently around us. Is it not a deli- 
cious scene, and a delicious hour? Listen, now, 
to a tale of the world thou lovest, — a tale of 


' A world whose brightest hues reflect 
The light of distant orbs.' 

" Just in the border of the remnant of a wide 


old wood was a scene of exquisite beauty. Un- 
derneath the spreading branches of a large tree, 
and opening out upon a rich tract of cultivated 
country, lay a little spot of mossy and carpet- 
like verdure. A low bank of earth, spread with 
the same delicate covering, rested against its 
huge base. Flowering vines trailed to the 
ground from the intermingling boughs of neigh- 
boring trees, and, with their lighter and more 
graceful trunks, formed long avenues, leading 
away into the depths of the woodland, till the 
eye was lost in the dimness. Before it, rolled on 
a shining river, and within the view, were distant 
mountains, green fields, groves of trees, rural 
homes, and the confines of a populous city." 

" You tell me not where." 

" On earth, ma belle. Is not the picture 
earthlike ? And if it be, what matter for the 
c where ? ' What matter if that river be the 
' silver Arno,' the spirit-haunted Rhine, or one of 
the Atlantic-bound of our own beautiful land ? 
Perhaps that city bears witness, in its ruins, of 
the magnificence of ' the olden time ; ' perhaps, 
like some amid our fair savannas, it can boast 
no more than a yesterday's date ; or, it may be 
one whose dwellers, coming down through ages, 
from some renowned race, are struggling to 
preserve the poetry of the past from the innova- 
tions of modern improvement." 


" I had rather it should be one of these." 
" And so had I. But I was telling you of 
a beautifully designed entrance to a magnifi- 
cent temple, reared and consecrated by nature. 
There was a worshipper within. A bright form 
of humanity, enshrouding a gifted youthful spirit, 
leaned, in thoughtful attitude, upon its low altar. 
It was no penitent, seeking, by sweet draughts 
from the fountains of purity and peace, to clear 
out from its choked- up passages ' the perilous 
stuff that weighs upon the heart.' A guileless 
life knows not the passion of remorse. Nor was 
it one who had read divinity, alike in the sun- 
beam and the starlight, till a joyous peace had 
settled down upon his soul, and his onward steps 
were cheered by ' the light that shineth more 
and more unto the perfect day.' Nor peaceful 
rest, nor cheering light, blesses the anxious, but 
baffled searcher after truth. 

" The sun had sunk behind the shadow of the 
foliage, at the western point of the landscape, but 
a single gleam struggled through, and glanced 
horizontally upon the motionless form of the 
student of nature. There might have been a 
revelation in that ray, or perhaps he heard a 
light footstep, for he looked up, and saw a fe- 
male figure come out of the wood, on one side 
of the recess, and stay her step just within its 


leafy enclosure. I shall not talk to you of 
flowing robes, and gliding motion like that of a 
sylph, and features radiant with the light of the 
soul, for you will naturally imagine all these, for 
this visitant. Nor will I tell you to what order 
of intelligences she belonged. Were she more 
than mortal, we must clothe her in the habili- 
ments of humanity till our earthly intercourse 
with her is ended ; and were she no more than 
one of us, except in her superior virtue, and 
superior charms, we can well believe that we 
have not seen the perfection to which our human 
nature might attain, could the young blood be 
kept pure from the contagion of a sin-sick world, 
and the young heart free from its defilements. 
But whether she were messenger from other 
sphere, or mortal, or muse, he addressed her 
fearlessly, though with deep respect. 

" ; You promised to meet me, but I knew not 
the time or the place.' 

" ' The time,' she replied carelessly, ' is soon 
enough, and the place is most fitting. But why 
was I to seek this interview, when I knew not 
the motive of your request ? ' 

" ' If you will be seated,' said he, and pointing 
to the turf from which he had just risen, ' I will 
explain my motive, by making you acquainted 
with the perplexities of my life. This seat may 


be all unlike the sumptuous couches in the 
palaces of yonder city, but if we believe the 
legends, may not brighter beings than those who 
recline there, beings with natures better allied 
to thine, fair lady, have rested here.' 

" Twining her arm within a slender branch 
of the vine at her side, and leaning gracefully 
upon it as if for support, she replied to his in- 
quiry, ' I am not weary, and I will listen. Be 
as brief as the hour demands.' There was a 
gentle decision in her tone and manner, and with 
a readiness which checked his rising emotion, he 

" ' My home is a cottage upon the side of the 
mountain which overlooks the city, and those 
who serve me there, call me Alhamil. I know 
nothing of my parentage, or of the home of my 
birth. My first well-defined recollections are of 
a place beautiful as our dreams sometimes are, 
filled with sunny spots of rich verdure, crossed 
by shadowy walks, groves of old trees, twilight 
with their massy foliage, mimic lakes, water- 
falls, and banks of flowers. All day long I 
watched the shining fish in the little coves at the 
side of the streams, or chased bright-winged in- 
sects, even to the wall which closed in my 
paradise ; or shouted to the song of the bird, in 
the tree-top, happy, though alone, and almost as 


wild as the untamed society in which I lived. 
But the storm sometimes came, and the night 
always, and then I returned as reluctantly as I 
might, to the shelter of the home I had left. 
The mansion-house of these grounds was filled 
with luxuries, and there was kindness there, to 
supply all my wants ; but never the tone of ten- 
derness, and the look of solicitude, which I have 
since noticed, in those who care for childhood. 
There was sorrow in the hearts of its inmates, 
long continued sorrow. I had no tears for that, 
for I had never listened to the story of its cause ; 
and when the gloom was deepest, the more neg- 
lected grew my lot, and the more joy was mine, 
to woo again, to the only sense which life had 
then awakened, the blended touch of the sunshine 
and the breeze. Sometimes, though very rarely, 
curiosity led me to the highway, and once or 
twice I rambled on to the outskirts of the town ; 
but the bustle and the strange manners soon 
wearied me back to my solitary sports. I avoid- 
ed even the laborers at work in the grounds. I 
had no communings with humanity, but deeper, 
day by day, grew my love, and more enthusiastic 
my worship of nature. Alas, for my apostasy. 
These fields are green, these skies are blue, and 
these waters are limpid, but the charm is not 


here. I sometimes think that I was dreaming of 
a brighter world, and that this is earth.' 

" Alhamil paused, for there was a smile on the 
face of his listener. Perhaps he only fancied it, 
or had it passed away so soon, and so entirely ? 

" ' I was told, one morning, that on the next, I 
must leave my home, and go a long distance to 
another. The time will not allow me to dwell 
on the grief of that day, — my first grief. It is 
enough to say, that as I had no communications 
for joy, so I had none for sorrow, and it passed. 
We went rapidly onward. The companion of 
my journey had reached the age of early man- 
hood. I had seen him often, but he had always 
worn a look of grief, and his manner, to me, had 
been ever cold and repulsive. He seemed in- 
clined to notice me now, but I was interested in 
other things, and paid but little attention to his 
remarks. I had never dreamed that the great 
world into which I was so reluctantly forced was 
filled with beauty, — the very beauty that had 
won my earliest love. How strange that I should 
be gazing upon the same forms, the same hues, 
and how irresistibly they led me back to happi- 
ness and hope. How delightedly I traced the 
windings of the stream, till distance, or some in- 
tervening object, hid it from my view. How 
eagerly my eye ran up to the summit of the hill, 


how familiarly it peered into the thicket. How 
my heart thrilled to the dash of the waterfall, 
how it echoed back the song of the bird. 

" ' Onward, and still onward, as we pursued our 
journey, worlclless ideas of variety, and vastness, 
and power, and infinitude, awoke within me. 
New forms of nature presented themselves to 
my view, — rocks, caves, glens, precipices. Men 
of strange tongues spoke to us in unintelligible 
language. Trees of singular foliage, and flowers 
of new hues, grew beside our path. Birds of 
strange plumage flitted above our heads. I 
looked up at the meeting of the mountain-top 
and the cloud, and down into immeasurable 
depths. I stood on the banks of mighty rivers. I 
rode upon the waves of the great sea. I was 
oppressed by the multitude of my thoughts, and 
very grateful for the soothing influence which 
they exerted over me. I watched the going out 
of the daylight from the west, and listened to the 
hush of the nightfall. 

" ' On such an evening we rode leisurely into a 
quiet country village, and stopped before a 
pleasant looking habitation. " This," said the 
kind gentleman who accompanied me, (for such 
I had found him to be,) " is, for a while, your 
home." I had never learned to give expression 
to my feelings, so I was silent and passive under 


this new event of my destiny. I believe, how- 
ever, that there was some evidence of grief upon 
my countenance, when, on the following morn- 
ing, I inquired for my conductor, and was in- 
formed that he had departed ; for, after many 
days of exhaustion from the fatigues of travel, 
and deep thought upon the new subjects which 
that travel had awakened, I remembered that I 
had been the object of many little acts of kind- 
ness, intended, no doubt, to relieve the loneliness 
which I must have looked and acted. They had 
their effect. Elastic nature returned to its 
wonted impulses, and sought among the objects 
of its visible communion, association and joy. 
My knowledge of the outward world had become 
to me like a dream, to which I returned at 
pleasure, and always with delight. Sometimes, 
with artist-like skill, I grouped and combined, 
till I had formed what seemed to me a perfect 
picture ; and when I had sufficiently admired its 
beauties, some scene of memory would come 
floating by, and nature was happier than design. 
Sometimes the recollection of a single object 
engrossed my thoughts ; sometimes the intermin- 
able whole would stretch out before me, and I 
looked, in fancy, from the mountain height, over 
broad regions, or tracked rushing rivers across 
continents to their sources, or followed the set- 


ting sun, till his rays glanced upon the headlands 
of distant shores, and lay warm in the valleys of 
far-away islands of the ocean. 

" ' It was a matter of no regret to me, that the 
country around my village-home, was less beau- 
tiful, in its general aspect, than thousand scenes 
through which I had passed. It was rather a 
relief. It was enough, for a while, to dream of 
beauty ; would it not some day become again a 
reality, and should I not love it better for this 
temporary estrangement ? 

" ' There was another cause for this sudden 
indifference. The constant care, and frequent 
manifestations of regard which I had received 
from my protector on our journey, had awakened 
the sense of human kindness slumbering at my 
heart, but I had formed no attachment for him, 
which I could not easily transfer to others. The 
people among whom I was placed, spoke a dif- 
ferent language from mine, and I learned to love 
its agreeable accents, before I could associate 
them with ideas ; and when, to the pleasantness of 
the sounds, was added a knowledge of the senti- 
ments, the kindness, and the love they expressed, 
I was alive to the joys of social life. The music 
and the power of words — the interchange of 
thought — how all unworthy of these gifts, is the 
value set upon them by mortals. But they re- 



ceive them, before the heart has learned, by its 
wants, to appreciate every acquisition in its 
progress to the power of full and free expression. 
It was different with me. I learned them, as 
they were learned in Eden ; or, rather, as they 
learned them, the wanderers over the high plains 
of Asia, when the righteous judgments of 
Heaven, in the land of Shinar, had reproved the 
presumption of man. I was like the lost of one 
tongue, seeking society with the separated from 
the tribe of another. 

" ' How merciful are the chastisements of God. 
Humanity humbled down to its befitting depend- 
ence, yet urged by necessity to virtuous exer- 
tion, must have found, even in the curse of 
Babel, high promptings to active enterprise in 
civilization and the arts. What inspiration to 
eloquence and song, what materiel for thought, 
and feeling, and poetic dreams, in the new 
knowledge brought to light, by that imperfect 
communication in words, of the power to ex- 
press, which lies in attitude, and look, and tone ! 
By what other means could I have been made so 
sensible of the symmetry of the human form, the 
grace of human action, and the beauty of the 
human face, as in that earnest wish to under- 
stand, which prompted, on the part of my kind 
friends, a corresponding wish to impart, and 


gave me, in so many instances, not only the 
desired information of the moment, but the very 
truth of the ideals of the statuary and the painter. 

" ' This, my second lesson in the knowledge 
of human life, was no less interesting than the 
first. It was not, indeed, so readily compre- 
hended, but there was pleasure even in that, for 
it gave promise of continued novelty, in con- 
tinued study. The material world was a pano- 
rama, whose scenes were all picturesque ; the 
world of humanity, a volume with splendid em- 
bellishments. Its tales of passion, and suffering, 
and enjoyment, were not all intelligible, but 
bright were the truths I was able to understand, 
and so beautiful in illustration its illuminated 
pages, that I deemed man (high praise enough) 
worthy to live with nature. Too much a fancy 
of youth, to be realized in a longer acquaintance 
with life ; yet, as nature appears to me now, I 
might still acknowledge it true.' 

" It was not then a smile that crossed the 
features of his listener, but a look of such kind 
interest, and yet half playful, that he paused 
again, and apologized for the diffuseness into 
which memory had betrayed him. But she 
looked calmly into the wood, and then up at the 
western sky, brilliant with refracted light, and 
replied, ' My abode is not far from here ; there 
is yet time.' 


" ' My stay among these interesting people 
was much longer than I expected ; but a messen- 
ger at length summoned me to meet my guar- 
dian, in a town some leagues distant. I was not 
unwilling to leave my village friends, though the 
parting was a sad one, for I had lived in the be- 
lief that my life was not to be spent with them, 
and I had become ambitious to know to what 
course my future existence was destined. Be- 
sides, I should find others like those I left. The 
book would still be mine with its illustrations. 
So, at least, I thought, during the two days' jour- 
ney which conveyed me to my friend. The 
visible agitation with which he received me, and 
a certain change, that some strong feeling had 
marked upon his features, since the last time I 
had looked upon him, made me diffident, and I 
replied to his interrogatories, and received his 
instructions, with all the passiveness of my 
earlier youth. Another period of my life was 
soon arranged. My acquaintance with books 
was extremely limited, and it was my patron's 
wish that I should study. My new abode was to 
be adapted strictly to a studious life, affording 
little opportunity for social intercourse, but giving 
me access to hundreds of well-selected volumes, 
to many beautiful and curious productions of 
nature, and to fine specimens of the arts. 


" ' The ardor with which I engaged in my 
new pursuit, enabled me to acquire the elements 
of science, and to deduce conclusions, with intui- 
tive power. I was again with nature, not as 
before, all eye, all ear, but all thought, all won- 
der. I might have murmured that the enchant- 
ment of first impressions, should give place to 
analysis, and classification, and detail, but I could 
only marvel at the forming, and adapting, and 
governing power, everywhere displayed. An 
overpowering sense of omnipotent presence, took 
possession of my soul. There was a record 
upon every leaf, a reflection from every gem, 
and a language in every sound, that testified 
of purpose. The light boughs bent, gracefully to 
the breeze as before ; but it was now in obe- 
dience to an unerring agency. The brook 
wandered and sang, not indeed " at its own 
sweet will," but at the will of an immutable law. 
The falling shower, and the wreathing mist, the 
blossom, and the dew-drop, and all lovely and 
gentle things, told of their " wherefore." The 
sunbeam was brilliant of its beneficent deeds ; 
and when night came, with its immensity of 
darkness and silence, I seemed to ride with the 
spheres, on their nicely-ordered round of chang- 
ing seasons, and light, and shadow, and listened 
to that wondrous music, whose chords are so 


skilfully attuned, that it might be deemed a 
chorus of the seraphim. Overcome and hum- 
bled, even to sadness, I sought relief in the 
lighter records of the works of man. 

"'There they were before me, — the im- 
personations of thought, the beings of the mind, 
wrought into all but breathing life, by the genius 
of the artist. I caught the inspiration, but I 
wanted the power to execute ; nor was I long 
in discovering that the great masters could 
never quite represent the beau ideal of their 
dreams. Was it that man was greater in con- 
ception, and design, than in creative power ? 
Must he look with the eye of imagination upon 
phantoms of the glorious, while his best creations 
resemble the ruder and earthlier forms that fill 
his sensual vision ? So might he (the conclusion 
was unavoidable) know and feel the pure and 
the excellent in morals, yet be a wanderer in 
the wilds of delusion and sin. Much as this 
idea affected me, I lost sight of it in my first 
rapid perusal of the annals of the past. I caught 
pride at the thought that " the Lord planted a 
garden " for the first habitation of man ; nor did 
I feel so much the degradation of the fall, as the 
hope that he would prove worthy to " regain the 
blissful seat." It was this feeling which kept me 
from dwelling on the surpassing wickedness of 


mankind. I looked but on the good and the 
mighty. I was with the multitude, as with the 
single arm, only in their struggles for right and 
truth, in their deeds of perilous enterprise, and 
romantic adventure. I sang with the Israelites 
their songs of deliverance and triumph ; I went 
to Ilium with the princely avengers of the 
wrongs of Atrides ; I did battle with the Chris- 
tian knight, for the tombs of Palestine, led forth 
adventurers to search for the " islands of the 
blessed," and shouted freedom, from the hill-tops 
of the Vaudois. 

" ' How glorious appeared the conflict of the 
morning ray of mental liberty with the primeval 
darkness of uncivilized life, breaking out only at 
intervals, and fitfully, like the lightning from 
the storm-cloud, yet maintaining the desperate 
struggle, even to the period when God again 
uttered the mandate, " Let there be light." 
" And there was light " to dispel the night of 
barbarism that settled over the fair valleys of 
southern Europe ; and to show, in the untravelled 
distance, the actual Hesperides of the ancient 

" ' With what enthusiam I traced the progress 
of the refining arts, from the fabulous era, when 
the exiled Apollo sang to his lyre, among the 
herdsmen of Thessaly, and they took up that 


strain " of linked sweetness, long drawn out," in 
the muse-haunted groves of Greece, through all 
the years when the laurel leaf shaded the dia- 
dem on the brow of regal Italia, and still onward, 
from the time when the glorious spirit of north- 
ern poetry came forth from the mist and storms 
of the German ocean, and rested upon its shores. 
" ' Could I have noticed the degradation first ; 
could I have remembered the poor remnant that 
was saved when " the fountains of the great deep 
were broken up," and when the Lord rained 
fire upon the cities of the plain ; could I have 
dwelt longer upon the mournful story, that for 
their aggravated iniquities, God's own favored 
people were doomed, for long years, heart-weary 
captives, to weep by the rivers of Babylon ; 
could I have thought less of the deeds of the 
great ones of the earth, and more of the perse- 
cutions they suffered from the multitude ; could I 
have seen humanity as it was, as it now is, 
capable of high attainments in virtue, yet, for 
the most part, low and grovelling in its desires, it 
might have saved me from the sickening change 
of feeling which followed a more attentive pe- 
rusal of the pages of history. My aversion 
to my fellow-beings was settling into a most 
painful melancholy, when my thoughts were 
diverted by instructions, received from my guar- 


dian, relating to my studies. They were to be 
directed to the attainment of a profession for 
active life. I commenced the undertaking with 
industry, and persevered. My teachers praised 
my success, but the task, though engrossing, was 
spiritless, and I was glad when I was at length 
released. A few weeks' travel was thought 
necessary to my new vocation, and I was be- 
coming very fond of a roving life, when, one 
evening, our carriage wound slowly up from the 
city yonder, to my cottage-home upon the hill. 

" ' The domestics who inhabited it were atten- 
tive to their guests, and we spent the night be- 
neath their roof. In the morning, my guide 
presented me with the house and its grounds, 
and a considerable investment of funds in the 
city. He requested me to remain there until I 
received a visit from my guardian, from whom I 
might expect an explanation of the mysteries of 
my life, and then left me. And there, for many 
months, have I lived. My guardian has not yet 
appeared, nor do I know in what part of the 
world he resides. I have devoted some part 
of my time to business ; not that I have any 
motive to labor, but I have been told that it is 
not well to be idle. I have acquaintances in the 
city, but they do not interest me. They have 
not the simplicity of life and manners which 


charmed me in my earliest friends, nor are they 
like those we love, in story and song. I have 
already remarked upon the altered appearance 
of nature. I know not why it should be thus, 
for the verdure here is very luxuriant, and the 
skies are very soft. My home is beautiful in its 
arrangement of shadowing trees, and flowering 
shrubs, and twining vines, yet I value it only for 
the hours I can spend there, secure from inter- 
ruption, in meditation and dreams. My reading, 
since I was left to this life of leisure and free- 
dom, has been mostly of the tales of romance, 
and, like those who framed them, I live in a 
world of my own arranging. The charm of my 
first impressions of nature is in the bloom of my 
fancied Paradises, and beings, lovely as mortals 
may be, are with me there in happiness. The 
deceitfulness of life appears to me to justify 
these wild imaginings, yet not wholly can I avoid 
misgivings. I am beginning to fear that my 
guardian may never come, and that it may not 
be well to pass existence thus. I sometimes 
think that the strange manner in which I have 
been educated may have bewildered my under- 
standing, and that some one, with a better expe- 
rience of life, could direct me how to live in this 
world, without wearying of it, in view of the 
more beautiful ideal.' 


" ' Why do you not seek instruction,' demand- 
ed his listener, ' of the virtuous and the wise 
Anselm ? ' 

" ' Thou hast divined the wish of my heart, 
lady,' said the youth. ' I have heard much of 
the sage of whom you speak ; of his antiquarian 
lore, his researches into the mysteries of science, 
his surpassing knowledge of men and things, and 
of the familiar and illustrative manner in which 
he impressed truth upon those who seek his in- 
structions. I learned that it was one of the chief 
attractions of the new temple lately dedicated to 
the arts, that the noble Anselm spent much of 
his time in studying the chef cV ceuvres of its 
splendid collection. Every day, during the last 
week that it was open to visiters, I lingered in its 
galleries, but without accomplishing the object 
of each succeeding visit. I could not intrude on 
his conversation with others, and when I saw 
him alone, the sanctity of his character made me 
timid, and I feared to approach. You know the 
little incident which occurred at our first meet- 
ing, but you cannot know how much I was grati- 
fied by your obliging kindness, nor how I re- 
joiced, the next day, to see you leaning confid- 
ingly on the arm of Anselm, and the look of 
fond regard with which he listened to your re- 
marks. My resolution was instantly taken ; for- 


give its rashness. I determined to interest you 
in my story, if I could obtain your attention to 
it, and to beg your intercession with him, to 
make me the most obliged among those whom 
he has blessed with his instruction and advice.' 

" ' To-morrow,' she said, and the tone be- 
trayed an agitation she could not entirely con- 
trol, 4 to-morrow, the temple will again be open, 
with new and valuable additions. There will be 
many there, but fear not for your interest with 
Anselm.' And with a slight wave of the hand, 
and an au revoir expression of countenance, she 
disappeared amid the shadows of the wood. 

" It was a scene that might tempt you to leave 
gazing at this, ma chere, the interior of that 
magnificent building. Galleries of imposing 
height and fine perspective, filled with speci- 
mens from every school of art, and in such taste- 
ful arrangement, well might they have drawn 
together the hundreds who congregated there, — 
student-artists, connoisseurs, scholars, travellers. 
Yet was there no crowd in those spacious halls, 
but here and there a solitary gazer ; here and 
there a group of those whose worship, even of 
the beautiful, must be social worship. And no 
noise, except the low murmur of near voices, 
and the faint echoes of distant ones. 


" Alhamil was there, and Anselm, and his 
lovelier friend. He had seen them, and he be- 
lieved they had noticed him ; he was not certain, 
for they made no haste to join him. He dreaded 
the interview, and was weary of the suspense. 
His heart beat heavily, and turning the corner of 
a passage leading to another gallery, and con- 
taining a few seemingly inferior pictures, he 
leaned against a pillar which supported on one 
side the arched entrance, and thus screened 
from observation, endeavored to regain his self- 
possession. He had fixed his eyes so steadily 
upon a picture at half the depth of the recess, 
that he was unconscious of their approach till 
they were very near. He had been struggling, 
vainly, with his emotions ; he was only able to 
remain quiet. Strange that a simple tone should 
accomplish, in an instant, as by electric power, 
what moments of exertion could not effect. It 
was the hand of a master that touched the key. 
' Alhamil,' said the voice ; and he did not start, 
he scarcely raised his eyes to the interesting pair 
at his side, with the profound salutation of re- 
spect with which he replied to his name ; yet his 
pulse beat evenly, and he listened in silent joy. 
'You have taste,' continued the speaker; 'tell 
me, what think you of the picture you appeared 
to be studying ? ' The youth bent his earnest 


gaze, for a few moments, upon the before un- 
noticed piece. ' It seems,' said he, ' a Swiss 
mountain home. The wild grandeur of the high 
back ground is strikingly Alpine. The free 
world of the fleet chamois lies partly in shadow 
beneath ; and just where it stands, is the very 
spot for a habitation, looking away at the vine- 
clad hills on the right, and down upon the green 
valley, and trie quiet hamlet. But the picture 
has no animation ; there is no warmth in the 
coloring, no light even in the reflection of the 
sunbeam. That verdure tells not of the rich 
fruitage which fills the wine cup, and those 
husbandmen might hear the notes of the Ranz 
des Vaches, in a foreign land, unmoved. That 
peasant there, looking up at the scene above 
him, what does he know of the cavern of Grutti, 
and the bowstring of Tell ? ' 

" ' And yet,' replied Ansel m, ' what scene in 
all the world should be more beautiful than a 
Swiss mountain home, or who ever dipped a 
pencil in diviner colors than the artist who paint- 
ed that ? But I want your opinion elsewhere : ' 
and he led the way back into the larger room, in 
front of a wall covered with architectural designs, 
and through another passage, lined with col- 
umns of the different orders ; Alhamil knew not 
whither, so pleased was he to listen to his inter- 


esting remarks. They stopped before the model 
of an Attic portico, ornamented with a statue of 
Vesta. A wreath of freshly-gathered flowers 
had been thrown upon the goddess. ' Erenie,' 
said ADselm, with a smile, and waiting her ap- 
proach, ' this offering to the household gods must 
be thine.' A bright tear came to the eye of the 
maiden, as, clasping the hand that held her 
wreath, and leaning in fond reverence upon it, 
she asked, in reply, ' what better divinities could 
I worship, to-day ? ' ' Worship God, my daugh- 
ter,' was the cheerful, yet solemn response. 

" They passed on, and Alhamil's swelling 
heart needed the kind voice whose accents again 
met his ear. 

" ' There is a counterpart to the picture you 
criticised so severely. What think you of that ? ' 

" ' It seems the very same in its outline and 
grouping, but with a most striking difference in 
coloring and effect. There is light on that land- 
scape, and sound, and music, and joy. Those 
are the peaks that herald the coming sun, and 
reverberate the roar of the avalanche. That far 
reach of upland valley, and startling crag, and 
fearful precipice, echoes the hunter's carabine, 
and prolongs the swelling notes of the Alpine 
horn. The cascade leaps down from the rock, 
as if it knew its waters would travel seaward 


with the beautiful Rhine. The vine-dresser is 
singing the song of the hills, and the beaming 
eye of the peasant rests upon his father-land.' 

" ; And thou art looking, Alhamil, upon the 
very piece thou hast but just condemned. The 
clear light which shows thee its beauty now, was 
around thee then, but it came not back to thee, 
as it now does, in glowing reflection from the 
canvass. Canst thou not apply the illustration 
to thy life ? ' 

" ' I can guess thy meaning, but dare not trust 
myself to make the application.' 

" ' Sit down by me, then, in this unvisited 
recess, and I will give thee a longer, and a 
plainer lesson. And thou, too, Erenie, bring 
that low seat, and place it here for thyself. I 
have heard thy story, young man, and am much 
inclined to congratulate thee upon it, strange as 
it may seem that I should. • Thou hast learned 
the same things that others learn, and with this 
advantage : thy lessons, and the impressions 
they left upon thy mind, were distinct. To 
others, instruction is so blended, that the disaf- 
fection arising from one source, is compensated 
by the joy imparted at another ; and the beauty 
of many a truth is dimmed by the overshadowing 
darkness of some of its associations. The mind, 
in its early acquaintance with life, like the spirit 


in its warfare with this world, is " troubled on 
every side, yet not distressed ; perplexed, yet 
not in despair ; " for the admonitory voice is 
ever ready with its warning, and the hand of 
experience directs to the right path, and its sure 
reward. Thou hast needed these, my son ; thou 
canst not reproach thyself, as others must, that 
they have been disregarded. But wilt thou profit 
by them if they come to thee now ? ' 

" * Be thou the guide of my youth,' said Alha- 
mil, fervently, ' and see if I do not reverence 
thy counsels.' In the excitement of his gratitude 
he thought not of wondering that a tear should 
have gathered to the eye of the good Anselm, 
and that Erenie, whose presence had become to 
him like the imbodiment of his brightest dream, 
should have sought to conceal her emotion by 
drooping her beautiful head upon the folds of the 
philosopher's robe. 

" ' Let us compare thy past impressions with 
thy present discontent. Thou wert once an 
admirer of nature. A few roods of ground, 
closed in by an insurmountable wall, where 
spouted the tiny cataract, and murmured the 
gentle brook, where the hill and the grove 
imaged feebly the mountain and forest, and the 
breeze scarcely wandered in freedom, was thy 
whole world of fragrance, and beauty, and music, 


and it was world enough. Now, the wide earth 
is beneath thy feet, and the illimitable heavens 
are above thee ; the softest note that reaches thy 
ear from woodland, or gushing rivulet, or wan- 
dering zephyr, is but a part in that continuous 
strain which thou nearest, sounding on, grand 
and anthem-like, as from the sea of life to the 
shore of eternity. The ocean-wind comes to 
thy brow, fresh with the spray of the white 
foam ; beauty and grandeur are mingled in thy 
sight, and thou hast no joy in these things. 

" ' A few years of thy life were passed with a 
simple-hearted people, poor, except in content- 
ment and trust, and ignorant in all but that gentle 
wisdom which shrinks from the grosser forms of 
vice ; and thy social feelings had full and happy 
exercise. Now, thou art in the midst of a proud 
city, whose names tell of the chivalry of the 
past, and whose inhabitants, refined by powerful 
influences, are ranked with the aristocracy of 
the earth. Yet thou seekest no communion with 
thy fellow-men. Thou wert once an enthusiast 
in thy admiration of human greatness. Will the 
ascending chariot of ambition pause before it 
reaches its highest goal ? Has the greenness of 
the bay faded on the brow of genius, or does the 
armor of the Christian grow dim in his warfare 
with the adversary ? The present age has a 


conflict, and the battle-field is the human mind. 
The strife is still for freedom ; not that alone 
which breaks the chain, but that which binds the 
oppressor ; not that which may win the victory 
in the struggle with sin, but that which heeds 
not the voice of the tempter. The victor who 
wins for himself alone, wears a white robe, and 
carries a palm, and he who conquers for others 
writes his name, in starlike beauty, among the 
dearest to fame ; yet thou sayest thou hast no 
motive to labor. Thy offence,' said Anselm, 
replying to the ingenuous blush that kindled on 
the cheek of Alhamil, ' is less aggravated than 
it might have been. Thou hast not learned that 
the weakness which wears out life in inactivity, 
the wearyings of this world, the repinings of the 
disappointed, and the impiety of the misanthropic, 
come mostly from the very cause of thy present 
discontent, — the abuse of God's brightest gift to 
the mind, the gift that makes beauty of plainness, 
and throws over beauty a yet lovelier couleur de 

" ' It is the charm and the glory of existence, 
that it has been made our duty to improve it. 
Evil exists, but we have the good before us, by 
which to correct it ; the good is imperfect, and 
imagination, with her forms of transcendent love- 
liness, is ready to assist us in improving the 


good. And this is her only legitimate office. 
The shivering savage sees and adopts the shelter 
of him who has gone a few steps in civilization. 
The civilized discovers symmetry in nature, and 
remodels his habitation ; and the man of refined 
taste makes visible the beauty of the ideal, in the 
structure of his dwelling. Such is the true 
course of every onward progress that we make. 
When we have adopted the good, in all its pal- 
pable forms, the refinements of the mental vision 
come to our aid, and we go on in an improve- 
ment which we may contemplate as immeasu- 
rable ; for the poetiy that directs and cheers our 
advancement is evidence of excellence not yet 
attained, and religion justifies our aspirations 
after the beatified and the immortal. " The fool 
hath said in his heart there is no God." The 
fool hath deemed it were better to sleep on in 
death, than to awake to endless life. It was one 
advance from this, to hear the voice of the Great 
Spirit in the winds, and to see, in the shifting 
clouds, the souls of the departed. It was another, 
to behold in the woods and the fountains, the 
depths of ocean, and the realms of air, wrought 
into seeming life, by the beauty and grace of 
each, their own peculiar and presiding deities ; 
and it was another, to worship the true God, with 
the children of the patriarchs in the prophetic 


rites of the law. Yet were all these imperfect, 
for the heathen was dreaming of a purer philoso- 
phy, and the Hebrew was waiting the promise of 
a more glorious revelation, when Christianity 
descended upon earth, and made luminous the 
path of progressive duty. She it was, who 
taught that there are degrees in excellence ; and 
that leaving the things that are behind, we should 
" reach forward to the things that are before." 
She it was, who, mindful to link the ideal to the 
true, half opened the portals of the blissful world 
she promised us, gave us a few rays of its purer 
light, a few glimpses of its angel-forms, a few 
strains of its undying melody ; and whispering, 
that of its undiscovered glories, " eye hath not 
seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive," closed the vision, 
and exalted imagination to become a sister- 
grace with hope and faith. Alas, to what un- 
holy purposes, has her ministry been debased ! 
How have her brightest favorites stooped to 
pollution, beautifying unworthy objects to lead 
the heart astray in its love, and deifying perish- 
ing ones to profane it with idolatry. Trusting 
spirits, persuaded that her darker dreams alone 
are inspiration, have been frighted from their 
moorings of love and joy, and thousand minds, 
separating her light from that of truth and na- 


ture, have been lost in the wilds of unregulated 
fantasy. The last is thy fault, Alhamil ; and such 
will be its reward, unless the light that bewilders 
thee, can be thrown upon the realities of thy 
life. Be assured that the Alpine scenery of the 
picture before thee, is not more beautiful in the 
brightness that rests upon it now, than thy home 
and thy destiny will be, when the poetry of thy 
heart shall have made them its dream of beauty.' 
" ' I have learned my error,' said the youth ; 
* 1 saw nature beautiful in her outward garb, and 
sublime in her ceaseless operations, and man 
worthy of nature. But I was impatient at the 
imperfections which I found mingled with the 
blessings of earth. I did not reflect that this 
arrangement was for our benefit, that we might 
labor to overcome the evil with that which is 
more perfect, and grow purer and happier, in 
exalting and beautifying the good. I did not 
know, as thou hast taught me, that in this work 
we may bring imagination to our aid ; and I fled 
with her from the haunts of men, and became 
so enamored with the scenes she drew for me 
there, that I know not how to seek enjoyment in 
realities. Were my home and my destiny hum- 
ble, I might labor to improve them; and labor 
would create interest, and interest might awaken 
such love as we give to the ideal ; but they are 


already all that I could desire, and how can they 
ever be more to me, than they are now ? ' 

" ' Thou dost not know, then, that the philoso- 
pher can untwist even the sunbeam, and throw 
its iris hues upon the dazzled sight. And thou 
wilt not believe, that there is nothing so humble, 
if it be pure, or so lovely, if it be of earth, but 
may be made lovelier, and dearer, by that poetic 
charm with which the heart may learn to invest 
it, if it will. But thine is the common doom of 
those who allow themselves to be bewildered 
by the illusions of fancy. The spell of fairy- 
land is on thee, to wander amidst seeming de- 
lights, leaving, in thy own beautiful, but neglected 
inheritance, forms of life that slumber, voices 
that speak not, and harps that are tuneless, for 
there is no word, and no hand to wake them. I 
pity thee ; thy home has real charms, brighter 
than those of thy dreams, and thou knowest it 
not. Thy friends, — hast thou any friends ? ' 

" ' My guardian has claims upon my gratitude ; 
but I think of him only as of one, who, if indeed 
we ever meet, will leave me again to solitude 
and freedom.' 

" ' Look at me, Alhamil. Is it the professor's 
gown that I wear, — has time marked its changes 
so plainly, or can it be that the little artifices I 
have employed have been so successful, that you 


do not yet recognize your guardian in me ? 
This is no place for the communications I have 
to make, but I cannot delay to tell thee, that the 
home for which thou hast no affection was the 
home of thy birth ; the home, for a few years of 
happy life, of one who loved it with all the fervor 
of a poetic soul. Hers was the presence whose 
sunshine blessed it with perpetual joy. Hers the 
pure spirit, that, shrinking from the first fearful 
form of guilt that met her view, looked so be- 
seechingly to that world where sin cannot come, 
that the messenger death was sent to convey her 
home. She was thy mother. Hast thou not 
seen in thy grounds a low white monument 
marked with a single name ? I will not leave 
thee again to solitude. When the apparent in- 
consistencies of my conduct have been explained, 
thou wilt learn that I have claims upon thee for 
affection, as well as gratitude. And Erenie, who 
is weeping with thee, she, too, has a tie for thy 
heart ; one which I know thou wouldst not break 
for a thousand dreams.' 

" His voice, which he would not allow his 
own agitation to subdue, yielded, for a moment, 
to the power of sympathy. The look of wonder 
which had appeared at first upon the face of 
Alhamil, had changed to one of joyful recogni- 
tion ; to another of deeper interest ; and, with the 


first unwonted throb of filial affection that rushed 
to his heart, he was on his knees, clasping the 
hand of his revered friend, and weeping un- 
governable tears. 

" ' Be composed,' said Anselm, at length ; 
' suffer not the careless to witness the indulgence 
of feelings holy as thine. We will walk in the 
galleries, till I have met an appointment, which 
I must wait here ; but by the time that the 
shadows of the mountains have reached thy 
dwelling, we will go with thee there, and thou 
shalt know by what names we claim thy love. 
But the lesson, my son, let that remain with thee. 
Would that all, who, like thee, have wasted the 
poetry of the heart in vain imaginings, might be 
persuaded to turn to the real, and make of that 
the beauty and the joy of life.' 

" They were again seated. Those with whom 
they had mingled and conversed had retired, ex- 
cept a few who lingered at a distance. The 
same expression was on the countenance of each, 
—joy and anticipation ; and they spoke low, and 
briefly, of the gems of art with which they were 
still engaged. i That piece,' said Anselm, in 
reply to a question, ' I have studied more than 
any other. It strikes us, at first, as familiar ; yet 
there is a mystery about it, which we cannot 


solve. What taste in the selection of objects to 
form the scenery, yet how unimportant seems 
the circumstance, for the particulars please us 
not so much as the whole. The delicious haze 
of the atmosphere, so dreamy that spirits might 
sink to sleep beneath its influence, yet with such 
an apparently increasing glow, as if it were 
mingling with a flood of glory that lies beyond. 
May it not be a dream of that undiscovered 
island where paradise still lingers upon earth ? ' 
" c Why not,' said Erenie, ' a dream of heaven ? 

" All goodly things that mark our sphere, 
Glow in diviner beauty there." 

If it be the work of the ideal to beautify, and 
exalt the excellence which our knowledge of 
good and evil enables us to separate from the 
imperfections of this life, and if it be but a be- 
wildering fascination, when unconnected with 
realities, how may we think of heaven, bat as a 
continuation of the goodly things of earth. Its 
purely spiritual life may, indeed, forbid us to 
imagine for that world, much of the materiality 
that we love in this ; but have we not been told 
of golden harps, and garments of dazzling white- 
ness, and glittering crowns, and crystal rivers, 
on whose banks grows the tree of life ? Are not 
the pure affections of the heart, and the sanctify- 


ing passions of the soul, " goodly things ? " Can 
we lose there, the thirst for knowledge, the 
charity for our kindred nature, or the love of 
the beautiful and the holy ? Is there not high 
converse among the immortals, and love they not 
to listen to the music of the celestial choirs ? Of 
ourselves, know we not that we shall be " equal 
unto the angels ; " and of the angels, that they 
have sung to us songs of congratulation upon the 
borders of our world, and roamed its green mar- 
gin, in human guise, with their zeal to deliver 
messages of blessing, with their radiant coun- 
tenances, and their few, but burning words ? It 
is a necessary encouragement to our progress in 
this life, to be allowed to look to another, where 
pure and lovely things shall be made perfect ; 
and why should not heaven be dearer, if we may 
carry there not the remembrance only, but the 
actual possession of what we have valued here, 
purified and glorified, it may be, beyond even 
the reach of the ideal, but yet no more than the 
perfection of what we have loved on earth. Else 
what an immeasurable distance between this 
world and the next, and how much more we 
should shrink and cling to the perishing, had we 
not some acquaintance with the nature of the 
immortal. When we have gazed long and in- 
tently upon the evening sky, sensible, though we 


watched them not, of the changes, half real, half 
imagined, from lovelier, to lovelier still, through 
which all beautiful things of earth were passing 
in the softer light, have we not seen, all at once, 
so faintly, yet so distinctly apparent, that star 
whose coming heralds the glittering host ? Such, 
to us, be the dawn of the blissful world to which 
we go.' 

" My story is ended, dearest." 

" Why ! am I not to hear what is so soon to 
be disclosed ? " 

" Not now, indeed, it is too late. Nor is it 
necessary. I have done what I promised, as well 
as I might." 

"And I have seen ' that star.' Look at it, 
Mary ; just visible in that clear deep sky. Bless 
thee, my friend. If I possess any thing on 
earth that is worthy to make a part of the bles- 
sedness of heaven, it is thou, and thy ministering 



'T is the last touch — the last ! and never more - 

By the low-singing stream, or violet dell, 
Never beside the blue pond's grassy shore, 

Nor in the woodlands where the fountains swell, 
O, never more shall this wild harp resound 

To the light touches of impulsive thought! 
No longer, echoed on the winds around, 

Shall float those strains with human passion fraught ; 
Never, O, never more ! 

'Tis the last touch! O, mighty Thought, return 

To thy deep, hidden fountains, and draw thence 
Words that through all the heart's lone depths shall burn ; 

Words, that inwrought with hope and love intense, 
Shall thrill and shake the soul, as God's own voice 

Shakes the high heavens, and thrills the silent earth ! 
Bring forth proud words of triumph, and rejoice 

That thy dear gift of song a holier birth 

Shall find, when this is o'er! 


Too much in earlier day,?, departing soul, 

Thy song hath been of weakness and of tears; 
Too much it yielded to the wild control 

Of love's unuttered dreams and shadowy fears ; 
And yet some strains of triumph have been heard, 

Some words of faith and hope that reached high heaven 
As the low warble of the summer bird, 

Singing away the hours of golden even, 

Blends with the cascade's roar! 

Let it be loftier now ! a strain to cleave 

The vaulted arch above ; a hymn of hope, 
Of joy, of deathless faith, for those who grieve; 

High words of trust to fearful hearts that grope 
Through clouds and darkness to a midnight tomb ! 

Father of Love, thine energy impart 
To a frail spirit hovering o'er its doom ! 

Nerve with o'ermastering faith this weary heart 
Thy mysteries to explore ! 

If I have suffered in the mournful past, 

If withered hopes were on my spirit laid, 
If love, the beautiful, the bright, were cast 

Along my pathway but to droop and fade, — 
If the chill shadows of the grave were hung 

In life's young morning o'er my sunny way, 
I thank thee, O, my God, that I have clung 

To those eternal things that ne'er decay, 

E'en to thy love and truth ! 


Now on the threshold of the grave I stand, 

One lingering look alone cast back to earth; 
One lingering look to that beloved land 

Where human feeling had its tearful birth; 
There stand the loved, with earnest eyes and words, 

Calling me back to life's sweet gushing streams ; 
They stand amid the flowers and singing birds, 

And where the fountain o'er the bright moss gleams, 
All flushed with buoyant youth! 

They woo me back. I see their soft eyes melt 

With a beseeching love that speaks in tears; 
Deeply their sorrowing kindness have I felt, 

And hid my pangs, that I might soothe their fears. 
But now the seal is set — they cannot save; 

In vain they hover round this wasting frame; 
Let me rest, loved ones, in the peaceful grave, 

And leave to earth the little it may claim ; 
It cannot claim the soul! 

Nay, gentle friends, earth cannot claim the soul! 

Upward and onward its bold flight shall be ; 
The bosom of Eternal Love its goal, 

And light its crown, and bliss its destiny ! 
As the bright meteor darts along the sky, 

Leaving a trail of beauty on its way, 
So, winged with energy that cannot die, 

My soul shall reach the gates of endless day, 

And bid them backward roll 1 


In vain, O death, thy iron grasp is set 

On nerves that quiver with delirious pain; 
Claim not thy triumph o'er the spirit yet, 

For thou shalt die, but that shall live again. 
And thou, O sorrow, that with whetted beak 

Hast torn the fibres of a fervent heart, 
Thy final doom is not for me to speak, 

Yet thou, too, from thy carnage must depart, 
For God recalls his own. 

His own ! O, Father, 'mid the budding flowers 

And glittering dews of life's unclouded morn, 
Where there is thrilling music in the hours 

Of gentle hopes and young affections born, 
Through all its wanderings from thy holy throne, 

Through all its loiterings 'mid the haunts of joy, 
Hath my frail spirit been indeed thine own, 

By ties that time nor death can e'er destroy — 
Thine, Father, thine alone ! 

Shall it not still be thine, more nobly thine, 

When from the ruins of young hope it soars, 
And, entering into life and peace divine, 

Feels the full worth of what it now deplores ? 
No sorrows there shall stain its gushing springs; 

No human frailties cloud its joyous way; 
The bird that soars on renovated wings, 

And bathes its crest where dawns the golden day, 
Shall be less free and pure. 


And more than this! With vision all serene, 

Undimmed by tears, and bounded not by clouds, 
With naught thy goodneps and its gaze between, 

And where no mystery thy purpose shrouds, 
The soul, the glorious soul, in works of love, 

Shall seek, and only seek to do thy will ; 
Highborn and holy shall its efforts prove, 

Thy bright designs and glory to fulfil, 

While thou and thine endure! 



Thou art not here ! 
Yet memory brings thy softly beaming eye, 

And thy sweet voice with cadence low and clear, 
Steals o'er my spirit like an angel's sigh ! 

Thou art not here, 
Yet in my heart each word that thou hast spoken, 

Hath found a shrine above all others dear, 
And there must dwell — love's bright, undying token ! 

How strong the chain 
Which oft we grasp with careless hand, to twine 

Amid our thread of life, then strive in vain 
To burst the fetters we may not resign ! 

Thy pleading eye, 
Lit with love's holy fire which burns within, 

Hath messages that busy ears defy, 
Voiceless, yet heard above the tempest's din. 


Thou art not here ! 
The gorgeous sun hath lost his dazzling ray, 

The moon, less lovely doth her crescent rear, 
And nature mourns with me thy lengthened stay ! 

The stars ascend, 
Night after night their holy watch to keep j 
O, may their light upon thy path attend, 
While seraphs cluster round to guard thy sleep ! 

To prayer, to prayer! 
My aching heart, there is a refuge still 

From the wild worship of thine earthly care, 
In him whose love shall all my spirit fill. 

His days are thine ! 
Father in heaven! sustain, and bless, and guide 
The heart that long hath ministered to mine, 
From the o'erflowing of affection's tide ! 

He will return — 
The brave, the gentle, and the undefiled ! 

Strange that my doubting eye could not discern 
The bow of promise mid the tempest wild ! 



The first slight chills of early autumn were 
on the landscape, and the foliage had already- 
been stricken by the hand that throws beauty 
over decay. The sun had just gone down, but 
his footprints yet lay on the clouds of his path- 
way, as beautiful and as glorious as the memo- 
ries that remain when the noble and the good 
have passed beyond our mortal horizon. 

Twilight was gathering over the earth. A 
soft shadow was stealing over tree and river. 
The warm tints of the decaying leaf, and the 
blue of the sleeping current and the bending 
sky, were melting into its sombre hue. But the 
stars came out one by one, and the heavens 
grew bright. 

It was an hour when feeling lies quietly down 
before the shrine of thought. As the toiling and 
busy earth passes to repose beneath the lofty 
serenity of the skies, so the wildest pulse is 
calmed before the intellect, that then, majestic 


and unmoved, looks down on its tumultuous 
throbbings. It was an hour when man leans 
not on life ; when he sees that the hopes that are 
born of earth are but beautiful phantoms, that 
mock his pursuit, and lead him on with ignis 
fatuus light, until they vanish behind the tomb- 
stone that bounds his path. At such a time, life 
is the shadowy, and eternity the real ; and the 
restless cares, the fruitless toils, that fill up its 
day, dwindle into their own insignificance in the 
presence of the thoughts that wander on the 
star-beam, and traverse the hushed and holy air. 
The student sat by his open window, in one of 
the upper rooms of literary and classical Cam- 
bridge. It was the promenade hour, and crowds 
of gay belles and beaux were passing along be- 
neath his pensive and thoughtful gaze ; and if, 
in the dimness of the twilight, some bright eye 
caught the melancholy expression of his face, 
the light laugh soon told it was forgotten in the 
passing jest. What could she, the admired, the 
courted, the happy, know of sympathy with that 
unfamiliar, mournful student ? Perchance, time 
may teach her such lessons, that in after years 
the saddened look will not fall unregarded, but, 
like the angel of old, will go down into the 
depths of her heart, and so stir its secret foun- 
tains, that the spirit of healing shall arise from 
its troubled waters. 


The young student was sad. It was his last 
college terra, and the highest rewards of mental 
toil were to be awarded to him ; yet what were 
they now ? The hectic burned on his cheek, the 
death-gleam was playing in his speaking eyes, 
the viper was at his vitals, and the fearful work 
would soon be finished. What, then, would 
avail the efforts he had made, the hardships he 
had undergone, to win an education ? An ap- 
prentice boy, he had conned his lessons by the 
scanty fire-light ; he had toiled through the 
drudgery of winter school keeping, that his sum- 
mers might be given to unremitted study ; he 
had submitted to the petty insults that juvenile 
aristocracy are too prone to heap upon the less 
fortunate beneficiary in his college life ; all these, 
that a career of honor and usefulness might be 
opened to him, and was it not hard to die ? 

He was no dreamy enthusiast, content to sit, 
day after day, and listen to the sound of those 
sweet, flowing waters that glide through the soul. 
He was not one to allow his active energies to 
be lulled to slumber with the melody of those 
mysterious chords within that ever thrill to the 
beautiful and the sublime. He was an orphan. 
None ever called him brother, for the fair twin- 
flower of his home, the only sharer of parental 
love, faded before she could lisp his name ; and 


those who would have protected his childhood, 
laid down early to their rest. Nor had the 
bright and blissful imaginings of youth shaped 
themselves into a palpable form, and gathered 
around one fair face a crowd of radiant visions. 
Love, the sweetest, the holiest, the most evan- 
escent of all the dreams that haunt the human 
breast, had never abode with him ; still, life was 
full of joy and hope, and he felt it was hard 
to die ! 

He was ambitious. He had the consciousness 
of high energies that might be put forth for the 
benefit of mankind. He was strong to grapple 
with circumstances, and the sense of self-sustain- 
ing power made him long to enter upon the 
exercise of it in the exciting turmoil of life. He 
would lay the axe to the root of tolerated errors. 
He would hew down the mighty framework that 
shuts the mind from freedom. He would strike 
the fetters from thought, and teach it to dwell 
among the pure, the beautiful, and the lofty; 
and if, amidst these noble aspirations, other and 
more earthly ones were mingled, well might 
they be forgiven him ! He wished to climb 
where his station would compel the respect that 
was denied to his poverty-smitten youth ; he 
sought to outstrip, in the race for fame, those 
whose contumely had added thorns, if not obsta* 


cles, to his toilsome way ; he aimed to make the 
world feel his presence and power. Such was 
he ; yet the nickering flame of his life was 
nearly done, and he could only look to an early 

Well might he shrink from death, that myste- 
rious, remorseless thing, that comes so noiseless- 
ly, and stoops over man a few moments, and he 
is gone, and the clay lies cold, silent, and alone ! 
Well might he shudder to resign his hopes for 
the darkness of the unknown, and the unfathom- 
able stillness of the shroud and cofhn ! 

The twilight deepened, and then deepened 
the shadows on his spirit ; alas ! the stars had 
had not yet there broken the gloom ; the beauti- 
ful lights of heaven had not yet brightened the 
darkness born of the earth. A long train of 
mournful reflections came trooping over his 
mind. Thus ran the meditations of that sad- 
dened spirit : 

" And so I must die ; go far away into the un- 
known ; leave life with all its stirring interests, 
its warm companionships, its high promises, and 
lofty deeds, for a state that hath never yet had 
one ray thrown into its darkness ! Why hath 
heaven wrapt that future in clouds so impenetra- 
ble ? I would not shrink from the tomb, could a 
voice arise to tell me of its secrets, even if it 


brought a tale of trials to be endured, of conflicts 
to be met, or of difficulties to be overcome. 
There, at least, would be action, and that is hap- 
piness ; but that dim, silent realm, that land of 
unanswering gloom ! It is fearfully dark ! It 
is shudderingly lone ! Whither goes the soul 
when the last gleam hath faded from the eye, 
and the stern, gray twilight of the grave hath 
settled on each quiescent feature ? They say, 
those wise schoolmen, that death is sleep — rest; 
and I want action. They say that death is un- 
consciousness, until the dawning of a great day 
shall give another imbodiment to the newly- 
awakened spirit ; but I wish to live on, with 
knowledge and power increasing, with energies 
still progressing on a limitless career. Why 
hath our Father hidden a state we cannot shun ? 
why veiled in mystery an event he compels us to 
meet ? " 

As the night gathered over the earth, the stars 
grew more distinct in the skies, and the comet, 
that was on a visit to this system, shone bril- 
liantly, sweeping its long train over a host of 
the lesser gems. The student had seen it many 
times before, bat now, the position of its train 
with regard to the sun, manifested that its un- 
known errand to the source of light was accom- 
plished, and it was on its return along its illimita- 


ble way. He gazed at it with an interest he had 
never known before. There was something of 
sympathy between the mysterious traveller of 
the skies and his soul, about to depart on an un- 
known path. 

" Beautiful ! beautiful ! " he exclaimed, and 
looked upon it until the heavens had no other 
object for his eye. There it shone, brilliant, but 
unknown, the journeyer of a road measured only 
by him who ordained its wild, erratic career ! For 
a few more nights it would be seen, then away, 
with lightning rapidity, on and on, into bound- 
less space, — on and still on, where thought 
itself cannot travel ; so with his soul. For a 
brief season, it had blazed with unmatched splen- 
dor among inferior minds, but now it was about 
to depart from its familiar skies, and pass on and 
on, where new and unknown systems and suns 
should surround it, and of its mysterious way, 
none might take cognizance save the Eternal. 

How often does the harp within thrill with 
strange, unwonted melody, when all outward 
influences are silent, its strings vibrating to view- 
less fingers, and sending forth sweet response! 
Are not all spirits in unison, when the spirit- 
voice is uttered undisturbed by the jar of worldly 
elements, whether they are soaring through all 
space, or imprisoned in the clay ? Think not 


that unbodied intelligences never commune with 
those still fettered to the dust ! The eye may 
not see them, nor the ear reveal their presence, 
yet they may draw near to the hour of self-com- 
munion, and upbuild the holy purpose, strengthen 
the pure resolve, and elevate the affections ; and 
when the chains of the clay are falling from the 
soul, and it flutters on its unpracticed pinions, 
then do they hover round to cheer, and teach, 
and uplift it ! 

Was there a sound in the -hush of that starry 
evening ? The passing pedestrian heard only 
the shiver of the willow as the light breeze 
sprang up, but to the ear of the thoughtful 
student, there came a voice. The spirit of that 
wonderful star descended and communed with 
his own, just on the verge of its unfettered 
existence ; and though to other eyes it was a 
bright, mysterious, silent marvel, yet to him, it 
breathed wisdom from above, and was an angel 
of comfort. 

" Fear not," thus murmured those gentle 
sounds, " fear not ; my path is long, and to your 
eyes, shrouded in obscurity, but nevertheless, it is 
marked and guarded by an almighty and benefi- 
cent Hand, and I cannot go astray. I could not, 
if I would, shoot madly forth into space, plunging 
headlong into confusion and disorder, though to 


you my track seems wild and aimless. Years* 
nay, centuries may pass while I am away into 
what you call a fearful unknown, yet as surely 
as the sun brings you day at each revolution of 
your planet, so surely I return. The laws that 
control my orbit are as unerring as those on 
which you depend for daily bread. 

" Think not my path is lone and dreary, be- 
cause the light of your system does not shine 
upon it. Suns innumerable burn to illumine it, 
and I have a melody all my own that ever cheers 
its length ; and far among those worlds, invisible 
to your eye, I commune with intelligences that 
know neither sin, nor tears. Do not believe that 
God is the Father only of your small aggregate 
of worlds, and that his wisdom and love are 
limited by the confines that bind your planet- 
circle. There are worlds whose light hath never 
yet arrived at your own ; there are worlds so dis- 
tant that their light can never reach those other 
worlds, nor does the creative energy falter there, 
but extends on and on, where the mind is pained 
with the effort to follow ; and yet no jarring mars 
the grand harmony, no orb deviates from its 
marked path, no wilful planet disturbs the vast 
economy. Fear you now to launch forth into 
the unknown, and trust to the keeping of Provi- 
dence ? 


" As heaven deals with me, so with the soul. 
It comes from the unknown, and stays awhile in 
a part of its orbit visible to mortal eyes, but that 
little portion of its great circle is soon measured, 
its predestined errand accomplished, it departs far 
away again into the unknown, and ye weep it as 
extinguished, when it is only gone to fulfil the 
designs of its creation. You mourn it as lost in 
darkness. You watch its parting rays, hoping 
thereby to track its viewless flight, and when the 
last, soft gleam hath faded from your view, you 
weep the failure of your efforts, though that 
tremulous light vanished amidst the calm of the 
serenest skies. Learn of me a better lesson. 
As I travel into the illimitable obscure beneath a 
superintending Eye, so does the soul. The 
Hand that guards my orbit, guards that also of 
the disembodied spirit, and it shall neither perish, 
nor take one step on its immeasurable way that 
is not noted of God. 

" You want action, stirring life. Never, in 
your world, may the mind dream of the glorious 
scenes that await its energies when the vesture of 
clay is laid aside, else might the ' silver cord ' 
be cut by the impatient hand ! Do I lie asleep 
in the fields of the sky when ye see me not ? Is 
the soul wrapped in unconsciousness when its 
physical organs have refused any longer to be 


the interpreters of its will ? Am I not chanting 
the gushing happiness that dwells within me, as I 
career along invisibly to all eyes, and may not 
the spirit be exulting in its newly-acquired free- 
dom, when ye mourn it as chained to a frozen 
sleep ? Trust our Father. All mercifully hath 
he cast a veil over the life beyond the grave, and 
made faith your only teacher ! 

" Repine no more ; whether we travel in the 
firmament of mortal vision, or our way be far 
off into the darkness, one Hand sustains, leads, 
and guards us, and to do the will of Him, our 
Father, that alone is heaven, whether on earth, 
or in those distant worlds that never shine on 
the planet you inhabit." 

The night wind murmured among the trees 
with a stronger sway, and the rustling of the 
leaves dissolved that spirit-communing. 

A fortnight from that evening, the comet was 
not seen in the heavens, and the wind that came 
through the open casement around the bed of 
the young student, lifted the rich brown locks 
from a pulseless brow. The soul and the star 
had both departed on their mysterious journey ; 
but the holy calm that lay on the face of the 
forsaken clay, told that the spirit had not held 
communion in vain with that bright traveller of 
the skies. 



Once more ! once more ! O, tear me not 

So rudely from this coffined clay ! 
My heart will burst upon the spot, 

Unless its swollen floods have way. 
Another look, ye men of stone, 

On what I ne'er again shall see; 
Then let the heavy mould be thrown — 

O, would its weight might fall on me ! 

My boy ! my precious boy ! I gaze, 

As mothers oft before have done, 
To treasure up, for gloomy days, 

Some semblance of the buried one. 
Thy cheeks are very pale, my child; 

Thine eye hath lost its starry light, 
And there's a spot! — my brain is wild — 

Go, take him, bearers, from my sight ! 


Yet one more look! Why should I shrink 

To view thy loathsome work, O death ? 
This is the cup that all must drink, 

Who hang their hopes on mortal breath. 
It is his flesh, and it were dear, 

Though spurned by vultures, unto me; 
Away ! away ! my place is here — 

Where else should childless mothers be ? 

Dear little Iambi O, thou wert fair 

As is the fairest morn in June, 
When beauty clothes the very air, 

And every bird and flower's in tune. 
A merry little bee thou wert, 

Drinking in bliss from every leaf, 
And singing, to thy mother's heart, 

A song that had no tones of grief. 

O, will ye close the coffin's lid? 

And must this be my last, last look? 
Must that dear form for aye be hid ? 

Truly is life a sealed book. 
'Tis as ye say — he is in heaven; 

So may I feel, when sorrow's wave 
No more across my soul is driven; 

But now my hopes are in — the grave. 


Those lone, bright spheres ! How beautiful their light 

In the wide solitude of space! How far 
O'er reefy shore, and bold Norwegian height, 
And tropic desert, will one small, faint star 
Its cheering radiance throw ! 
And they who toil below — 
The weary voyager on the trackless sea, 
The pilgrim thrown beneath the wayside tree, 
O'erworn with care and pain ; 
O! shall not these take heart of grace again, 
And struggle on through all the awful night 
Cheered by that small, sweet light? 

Grant me, O God ! a high, soft star to be ! 

Calm, still, and bright, to trace my way in heaven, 
And shed my light o'er life's tempestuous sea, 
Where human hearts, like fragile barks, are driven 
Mid rocks and hidden shoals. 
A soul mid glorious souls — 



A small, pure star within the glittering band 
That high above the clouds, undimmed and grand, 

In placid beauty rolls, 
To herald on the weary to the land 
Where all is rest and peace ; to guide the way 

To heaven's unclouded day ! 

s. c. E. 

Engra.vea."by QPeLton. 





"When Hook 
On one so good, I must believe that heaven 
Sent her in kindness, that our hearts might waken 
To their own loveliness, and lift themselves, 
By such a reverence, from a dark, and dull, 
And grovelling world." 

" Where now, my Flora ? " exclaimed a merry 
sunburnt son of Neptune, almost impatiently, 
as his nimble companion, an earnest, glad- 
looking maiden, had climbed a pile of stones and 
stood intently gazing through an aperture she 
had in a moment formed with her hands through 
a thick hedge of wild vines and rose-bushes. 

" Where now, my Flora ? verily, you are the 
craziest elf I ever saw ! You need never sympa- 
thize with me on the perils of a three years' 
cruise after this, nor tremble when I tell you of 
our course round the Maelstrom. Believe me, I 
shall take the helm from the most skilful Nor- 
wegian with the utmost confidence in the future, 
for I have come to the sober conclusion, that to 


chase a romantic jade like you through every 
crook of the woods she may choose to go, and to 
be obliged to leap ditches, and climb loose walls 
to satisfy her whims for every wild thing she 
spies, is one of the most perilous situations in 
which a poor fellow like myself can be placed." 

" O hush, uncle, you will disturb them ! " said 
his companion, whose raised finger and low 
tones betokened an intense interest in the scene 
she was witnessing. 

" Disturb what ? the cows ? for I truly believe 
you are nearer a barn-yard than aught else ; " 
and giving her a comical glance, our sailor 
leaped up on the rocks, and, encircling her waist, 
made a slight attempt to draw her away from 
her position. She knew him too well for that to 
succeed, and dexterously clasping his willing 
neck, which had spurned many a heavier yoke, 
she bent his head to the aperture. A moment 
more, and a truant tear, which the sailor would 
fain have kept in its fountain, was coursing its 
way down his brown cheek. 

" Do you know that group ? " asked Flora. 

" How should I, child ? " was the quick an- 
swer. " Since last I trod these paths, changes 
have been going on with steps so noiseless and 
gradual as to be unperceived by you ; but, alas, 
for us poor rovers ! the faces that looked kindly 


on us on one return, become changed ere 
another, and youthful eyes look strangely on us 
with no welcome. Those children have never 
danced on the green to the music of my whistle, 
Flora, for they have entered on life's voyage 
during my absence." 

" Speak softly, uncle, for the least interruption 
would cause those little nervous hands to over- 
throw the flowing cup of new milk. And hear 
that chubby, loving-eyed boy, how he chides his 
Jowler for the least manifestation of joy, and the 
robin on the hedge twitters now too free for him. 
Ah, he knows, though a child, how the spirit 
within that shrine of their love has struggled 
to be free, and he fears lest the breath of this 
soft summer air should bear it away. But look 
again ; do you know that pale, calm face ? I 
shall not marvel if you do not, for sickness has 
added ten years to its aspect." 

" No, no ! Do n't trouble me with the thought 
of how soon I, too, may be forgotten." 

" Nay, my good uncle, you forget your good 
deeds sooner than I do. Why, I believe that 
dog would remember you, and — " 

" Yes, yes ! I have it all now, my girl, fresh 
as yesterday memories. I remember, when I 
had bidden you all 'good-by,' and plodded off 
like a whipped school-boy, imagining myself the 


most wretched being in existence, I was passing 
the brook, and looking a sad farewell to the 
willows that sheltered me in my angling sports, 
when a young form caught my eye, attempting 
to tread a plank I had thrown over the stream 
the day before, to try the courage of little Ned. 
I saw her object was to gain the opposite shore 
to save her blind father who had mistaken his 
path, and was walking directly to the stream. 
One glance more and the plank was overturned, 
and the girl in the water. Not a moment was 
lost ; I leaped in, and, at the same moment, a dog 
bounded from the thicket, and together we bore 
her to her father's arms. I saw her safe home, 
and the wind being fair — or to me very contrary 
— I hastened to set sail from port, and from that 
hour to this, I have never heard any thing of the 
little martyr ; but many a time, as I have lain 
swinging in my hammock, I have thought of that 
pale, dripping figure, and the joyful look of her 
blind father as he clasped her in his arms and 
blessed me ; and pleasant thoughts have crossed 
my mind of one good deed done, and they have 
made my sleep sweeter. But really, Flora, as I 
look at that languid, colorless face, I feel almost 
persuaded that I restored her to life only to pass 
through trials and sufferings. " 

" Uncle, let us slide softly down the rocks, for 


I fear Jowler's quick ear will detect spies, and 
then I will tell you a little of that invalid's history, 
as I have learned and known it. But to you, who 
have listened to many t tales of battle and of 
wreck,' I fear ' the slight and simple annals of 
the poor ' will be but trite." 

"Misjudge me not, girl," replied the sailor, 
evidently deeply moved ; " though I am bold, 
rough, and hardy, my heart is yet young, and 
who knows but that you may give me a happy 
thought that will cheer and strengthen me amid 
storm and peril ? " 

They had soon found a quiet retreat in the 
beautiful wood, where the wondrous power of 
nature's loveliness to wake up the gentler feel- 
ings, was confessed ; and as the sailor there sat 
on a mossy trunk, while his niece lay at his feet, 
looking up with witching sweetness into his face, 
you might have seen through the progress of the 
story, a rich illustration of love's spell over the 
sterner elements in our nature. 

" Uncle," said Flora, musingly, " do you re- 
member the account I once read you of the 
artist, who, after he had painted the Twelve to 
his satisfaction, threw down his pencils, exclaim- 
ing, ' I cannot paint the face of Christ ! ' Just as 
difficult I fear it is for me, unspiritual as I am, 
to attempt to portray, in all its loveliness, the 


character of so meek and devoted a Christian as 
Amie Grahame. The story of her parents is 
tinged a little with romance. Her mother was a 
noble Scotch lassie, the pride of home, and her 
hand was sought even by the laird of her own 
native village ; but, true to the dictates of a 
generous nature and a faithful heart, she turned 
aside from all, and would marry none but her 
own true love, Allan Grahame. Blind though 
he was, it was enough for her, as she often said, 
that he had been the kindest and gentlest friend 
of her youth, and his sweet voice or mellow flute 
echoing among the 4 banks and braes ' of her 
native stream, had more charm to her than all 
the world besides. And then, too, she thought, 
should she who had long been his tried friend, 
forsake him, who would be as she had been, 
sight as it were to those veiled orbs ? Should 
she desert him, the remembrance of the gloom 
she had added to his darkness, would be bitter- 
ness in the sweetest cup that could be presented 
to her by fortune. Her choice was made, and 
her ambitious father rebelled at it, so that he 
spurned the meek Allan from his presence ; and 
even her mother, who had ever been tender and 
kind, had cherished too proud hopes for her 
bonny daughter to listen patiently to the story of 
her love. Is it strange that the light and beauty 


of home soon fled, and the music of her favorite 
stream became sad and melancholy ? Is it a 
marvel that she sought less for the birds in their 
nests, and watched them more as they rose on 
joyous wings and were lost in the blue ether ? 
America, at that time, contained a few of her 
dear relatives, and soon our country became to 
her and Allan 

' The one bright land, where they might dwell 
Where 't was no sin to love too well.' 

His friends offered to assist him to find the free- 
dom they deemed holy, and after long and sor- 
rowful struggles of the various affections that 
bind to home and kindred, they secretly bade 
adieu to the scenes of the heart's romance, and 
crossed the ocean. And here — " 

" Tut, child, do not say a word in approval of 
that course," interrupted the sailor, " or I shall 
be obliged to read you a lecture. It is better to 
obey father and mother, even though severe 
and stern trials may be the consequence. Fa- 
thers and mothers are seldom made of adamant ; 
besides, but little real happiness ever comes of 
these runaway matches.'" 

" Do n't fear, uncle," was the reply. " Many 
circumstances might convince the mind of that, 
particularly the bitter grief both Allan and his 


wife experienced, on accidentally hearing of the 
death of a broken-hearted mother. They did 
not come to our village until they had been 
several years in this country, and then their out- 
ward circumstances gave evidence of privation 
and suffering; but beautiful, amid all, were the 
tender devotedness and holy love that shone on 
every dark path of their existence, and cheered 
them to relieve each other's burdens, and direct 
aright the mind of their darling Amie. They 
sought no society, and none, save a few who 
loved to do good, visited them. A few years 
only were granted them in this pleasant retreat, 
for continued care and anxiety wore away the 
health of the gentle wife ; and when Amie was in 
her girlhood, she was left motherless, and more 
the protector, than the protected of her father. 
Ah, that poor blind man ! Never shall I forget, 
though then a child, his silent look of agony, 
when the burning tears rolled from his sightless 
eyes ; those eyes on which the dying wife looked 
sweetly as she said, ' They will be opened in 
heaven ! ' 

" The thoughtful instruction and discipline of 
Amie's mind, and the seclusion of her situation, 
gave her the dignity of a woman ; added to this, 
she was skilled in many little accomplishments, 
in which the delicate taste and fine perception of 


her father delighted to encourage her ; but far 
down beneath all these graces, which gave a 
zest to labor, was a deep well-spring of devotion 
and religious faith, whose clear and sparkling 
waters calmed and subdued the fevered spirit, 
and gave fresh charms to the lowly man's ex- 

" The good are always protected, and it was 
not long before kind friends offered assistance, 
which has been amply repaid by Amie. I can- 
not date the precise time when she commenced 
her mission as teacher to the village children ; 
but, perhaps, I should say her first lessons were 
given among the bright and beautiful scenes of 
nature, when she pointed to the delicate lily as 
an evidence of our Father's goodness and pro- 
tection, and subdued the mischief-loving spirit of 
little bird-stealers with the assurance, that not a 
sparrow falls to the ground without His notice. 
Her school has truly been one of spiritual cul- 
ture, and there is not a parent around to whom 
she is not very dear. 

" A long and severe sickness has reduced her 
to the helplessness of her present condition, but 
it has been ; the sweetness of her couch ' to 
realize how her instructions have been blessed. 
There has been no long, dreary vacation among 
her pupils, but a desire has been fostered by 


each little mind to so progress during her sick- 
ness, that the smile of delighted astonishment 
may be won from her when health returns. I 
wish you could see them sitting beneath the old 
elm, conning their lessons, and alternately hear- 
ing each other recite. And then, too, the care 
they take that each day she shall receive some 
token of their remembrance, — the cup of new 
milk, the delicate custard, the fresh flowers from 
the rose-bush, the pinks and the daisies, that 
never, till now, were seen to blossom beside 
their parents' doors. Many a mother has dis- 
covered how sweet is the gratification of her 
child in performing little acts of kindness, and 
their own hearts have become thereby more 

" When Amie was first able to bear the light, 
and sit out in the open air, it was a source of 
much sorrow to her devoted scholars that so few 
birds were singing around the cot ; and it was a 
touching exhibition of true and ardent affection 
to see how eagerly they gave attention to blind 
Allan's instructions as he taught them to sing ; 
and soon their sweet, bird-like voices, blended 
with the soft strains of Allan's flute, came, soft- 
ened by the distance, like fairy music, to the ear 
of the convalescent. 

" But here we are at the gate ! " exclaimed 


Flora ; for they had almost unconsciously risen 
from their seats in the wood, and slowly had 
taken the path towards home. u I have chatted 
too long, uncle, — " 

" No, no ! But tell me what was Amie's 
mother's maiden name ? " 

u Carlton, I believe. But why do you ask ? " 
" Because I am an inquisitive Yankee, to be 
sure ; but there 's some one standing at the end 
gate who may ask you a more puzzling ques- 
tion," said the sailor dryly ; and away he darted, 
leaving Flora with a smile and a blush on her 

I would that the artist who has caught so true 
a picture of the good' schoolmistress when she 
first ventured forth from the sick room, could 
have passed our village a short time after. The 
sound of glad voices would have awakened him 
from his reverie, and he would have turned 
from the dusty highway into a green lane that 
led to a cool and delightful grotto. There, 
from one of the almost perpendicular hills which 
surrounded and shut out the scene from the 
careless eye, he would have sketched on his 
canvass a smooth, grassy plain, through which 
ran a silvery brook that leaped and shouted amid 
rocks, until here, like a tired child, it seemed 


glad to dally with the violets, and murmur only 
soft lullabies. And the group there ! How I 
should love to have seen it immortalized by the 
touch of his eloquent pencil ! There, again, 
would have been the village schoolmistress, sit- 
ting in a flower-trimmed mossy chair, beneath 
an exquisitely-wrought canopy, her eye less 
languid, her form more erect, and a brighter 
glow of health tinging her cheek. Her blind 
father would be seen reclining at her feet on the 
grass, his countenance beaming with animation 
and joy as his fingers moved lightly over his 
guitar ; and, as he turned his head rapidly to the 
several parts of the groups, you would not have 
thought that he could ken any less than the rest. 
Groups of children would be rambling around, or 
dancing to the blind man's music, and our friend 
Jowler would be leaping about here and there, 
and every where, almost frantic with joy. Such 
a scene could not be painted, for it was " ever 
charming and ever new." 

But what meaneth this ? It is the children's 
fete to celebrate the complete recovery of their 
friend. But why do Flora and her uncle inter- 
rupt the circle by the introduction of a stranger ? 
We must go back to the sailor's last question, 
and do him the justice to say, that it was a better 
motive than mere curiosity that induced him to 


ask for Amie's mother's maiden name. The 
answer was enough to settle many questionings 
in his own mind, and induce him to travel far in 
search of a Scotchman who came passenger in 
the last ship, and who often paced the deck with 
him during the night watches, confiding to him 
his history.- He knew that man must be Amie's 
uncle, who would deem it the happiest day in 
his life which should restore to him his blind 
brother Allan, that he might minister to his 
wants. Joyful was the meeting amid the one 
circle, and beautiful was the scene when every 
member of the whole party paused in glad aston- 
ishment, and Amie clasped her hands fervently, 
and gazed up with overflowing eyes, exclaiming, 
" O, my poor blind father ! God has heard my 
prayers for the protection of your declining 
years ! " 

" Praise God ! " was the blind man's response. 
" He has blotted out my transgressions, and my 
iniquity is covered. O, that she were here, for 
a moment, whom I won to a home of poverty 
and trial ! " 

Glad were the choral songs that echoed through 
the glen as Amie returned to her home with her 
father, and new friend, and the overpowered, 
kindhearted sailor, escorted by the multitude. 

Flora parted from her uncle at the gate, but 


hailed him, as she remembered he was to hasten 
away. " To-morrow you sail, do you not ? " 

" I expect to." 

" What will this day's deed do for you when 
away ? " 

u O, it is all here," said the sailor, as he 
placed his broad hand on his heart, with a most 
solemn and good look. " And this I leave for 
you : that if I were a woman, I would rather 
be the humble Amie Grahame, winning young 
hearts to knowledge and virtue, than to wear the 
queenliest crown that ever pressed a human 
brow. Be good. Farewell ! " 



[The promising young author of the following lines died, about a 
year since, of consumption. His friends will be gratified by their 
preservation in this volume. — Ed.] 

Once Winter dwelt by the Frozen Sea, 

In a lordly palace hall; 
Each floor was formed of the stainless snow, 

And of ice each lofty wall. 
The roof was decked with glittering gems, 

Suspended in long array, 
That shone like the rainbow's brilliant hues 

In the golden light of day. 

And when the bright stars began to move 

Through the blue and boundless arch, 
Like " an army of spectres, pale and wan," 

On its swift and noiseless march, 
The rooms were filled with a softened glire, 

That mocked at the noontide beams, 
And pillar and dome, like burnished steel, 

Shot forth their unearthly gleams. 



There the wind-harp poured its music low, 

In floods on the stilly air; 
And flames rose up in the northern sky. 

Like a maiden's streaming hair, 
When the bands are loosed that bound it long, 

In their firm and strong embrace, 
And it falls, in thick and clustering curls, 

Around her beauteous face. 

But Spring found out where the old man dwelt, 

Before many months went by, 
And flew to his wild and lone retreat, 

Through the deep and dark blue sky; 
For Winter had cast, in distant days, 

A blot on her spotless name, 
And dimmed, with false and slanderous tales, 

The shield of her virgin fame. 

She reached the hall ; but her balmy breath 

No sooner had fallen on 
The o'erarching dome, so pale and cold, 

Than pillar and all were gone; 
Like the fragile flower that spreads its leaves 

Ere the morning sun has rose, 
And drinks his beams through the fleeting day, 

Then dies at evening's close. 


But Winter fled with a noiseless step, 

When he saw that Spring was nigh, 
For he knew he had done the maiden wrong., 

And feared the glance of her eye. 
She followed him over the mighty sea, 

And over the wide-spread land ; 
And still, when Winter goes swiftly by, 

The gladsome Spring is at hand. 



Life is but a changeful story, 
Of its end we little know; 

All its years are but a moment, 
Shadow-like they come and go. 

Careless, thoughtless, of the' future, 
To its dark revealings blind ; 

Phantoms we are ever chasing ; 
Phantoms of the eye or mind. 

Does the heart delight in beauty? 

Rosy cheeks, and sparkling eyes? 
Ah, the form they are adorning, 

Is a spectre in disguise. 

All the pleasure we are seeking, 
All the charms we sigh to clasp, 

Are no sooner to us given, 
Than they perish in our grasp. 


Hope and joy we vainly follow, 

By their smiles deceitful led ; 
When at last we seem to reach them, 

Hope is gone, and joy is dead. 

Faith and love awhile deceive us; 

But their trial is at hand; 
Faith's fond promises are broken, 

Love is written in the sand. 

Shall we thus be mocked with shadows? 

Beauty changing into dust! 
Is there nothing real to bless us ? 

Nothing to reward our trust ? 

Nothing here! each dream shall vanish, 
Like the wave from off the shore, * 

Which, borne onward to the ocean, 
Laves the same green spot no more. 

But when life's short day is ended, 

And our phantom race is o'er, 
We shall taste and see the blessings, 

Which were but a shade before. 

Loveliness will be immortal ; 

Time shall nothing more destroy; 
While beside us dwell forever, 

Faith, and hope, and love, and joy. 



It was a pleasant autumn day. A party of 
young girls were seated upon a mossy trunk, 
which fell along the bank of a little brook. It 
was a romantic spot. Nature never formed a 
lovelier retreat -for the innocent and young. At 
the farther end of the dell the brook leaped over 
a ledge of gray rock, making a dreamy, delicious 
melody, peculiarly fitted to the solitude which 
surrounded it. A crumbling arch, not of ruined 
castle or time-worn tower, but which had once 
served for the abutment of a water-mill, long 
since decayed, and passed away from the earth, 
stood beside" the cascade just at the point where 
it fell over the precipice. 

The stream murmured and flashed along over 
the mossy stones below, and wound gracefully 
beneath the trunks of prostrate trees, and be- 
tween the green turfs of the valley. The dell 
was walled in by high ledges of limestone, in 
which the green briars of summer had taken 


root, and from which they streamed out like 
banners in the wind. The tall pines and cedars 
grew upon the summits, and shut in the beautiful 
glen from every eye but that of heaven. 

Such was the spot where these fair young 
beings were assembled ; and its beauty and soli- 
tude, and the delicious murmurs of the little 
brook that glanced along at their feet, seemed to 
have had an influence upon their spirits. Their 
conversation was low and gentle, yet it had 
character and interest. 

" Why should it be that we have a faculty 
given to us which has no answering reality ? " 
said Leonore, a girl of much manner, and more 

" In this glorious universe, Leonore," replied 
Ellen Werner, the loveliest and gentlest of the 
group, " there is enough of the scientifically 
marvellous for its exercise, is there not ? " 

" But why need we always wait for mathe- 
matical demonstrations before giving credence to 
facts established by innumerable testimonies ? I 
thought you were a believer in miracles, Ellen." 

" I am, wherever the miracle is wrought by 
the Spirit of God." 

" And why limit the operations of that 
Spirit ? " 

"I do not, Leonore. But I disavow its 


presence in every idle prediction of astrology, 
and in the delirious fantasies and prophetic 
ravings of wandering beggars and maniacs. I 
believe it only works for great and holy ends, 
and speaks through great and holy personages." 

They were discussing the art of divination, a 
subject to which their thoughts had been directed 
by the sudden appearance of old Kate Mossie at 
the foot of the glen, striding along toward the 
village. Kate was a half-crazed, vagrant old 
creature, who lived, no one knew how, and slept, 
no one knew where. She had a stated circuit 
which she regularly travelled every quarter-year, 
and her appearance was generally calculated 
with as much certainty as the return of a comet, 
or the transit of Mercury. 

She visited most of the families in the villages 
which she entered, and generally, by inadvertent 
questioning, and close observation, gathered up a 
good portion of every domestic history. But she 
was no gossip, and the knowledge she thus 
gleaned she applied to her own private aims. 
She had, evidently, some very acute faculties of 
the mind, which her mania did not render obtuse, 
and in the singular delirium which possessed her, 
she seemed to enjoy their exercise more than she 
probably would have done in a more rational 

LE0N0RE. 177 

Kate had become a welcome visiter in most 
houses about the country, for as she never 
tarried more than an hour at any place, and was 
amusing and good-natured, it seemed a relief to 
the monotony of country life, (we mean as it is 
passed by those who depend for incident upon 
human actions,) to have it broken in upon by 
one who had stories enough to be entertaining, 
and peculiarities enough to render herself an ob- 
ject of interest and amusement. Kate some- 
times, though rarely, would condescend to gratify 
the young people by giving them a peep into 
futurity through the exercise of her prophetic 
gifts ; and perhaps it was this, more than all 
things else, which made her so general a favorite. 

On the occasion of which we write, she was 
taking her usual route over the hills, (she always 
chose the hills and woodlands for her thorough- 
fares,) to the village of C , when she was 

perceived by the young party we have already 
introduced. Leonore started up, and proposed 
that Kate be. enticed into the glen, to spend an 
hour in unfolding to them their destinies. The 
proposition was eagerly seconded, and two of the 
most vivacious of the party started instantly upon 
the errand. While they stood parleying with 
her, just as she was about to wade through the 
stream, Ellen began to express her honest 


scruples about the propriety of tampering with 
the future. Leonore had a strong tincture of the 
marvellous in her mental conformation, and 
endeavored, upon philosophical principles, to 
substantiate the truth of fortune-telling and other 
magical arts. In the midst of their discussion, 
their companions returned, attended by Kate. 

Kate had a fantastical mode of dress which 
added not a little to the general picturesqueness 
of her appearance. Like most of her class, she 
was singularly tall and attenuate. Her long 
skirt, which she always wore with a trail, was of 
a brilliant crimson color ; the bodice was' of an 
equally brilliant yellow, and the sleeves of an 
emerald green. These colors she said she wore 
because she was a child of nature, and in the 
autumn of life ; for nature always robes herself 
in many hues during the season of her decay, 
and she was bound to follow her example in the 
same way that the children of fashion follow the 
vicissitudes of fashion. On her head she wore a 
blue turban trimmed with eagle's feathers, dis- 
posed in the form of a star, and fastened in the 
centre by a large gilt button. This was a 
symbol of the sky, with .its jewels of stars. 

So gaudy and fantastic a dress could scarcely 
have been designed by a sane imagination ; but 
it pleased poor Kate, and her patrons were kind 


enough to humor her by furnishing the parti- 
colored materials, whenever her wardrobe need- 
ed amendment. In fact, she would wear nothing 
of a soberer hue, declaring that the white robe 
of winter would be given her ere long, and till 
then, she should deck herself in the livery of 
autumn. This odd attire had gained her the 
cognomen of Queen Kate, by which title she 
was always recognized and addressed. 

She stood before the young ladies with an 
aspect in which gravity seemed struggling with 
good-humor. Their salutations were returned 
by a pompous wave of the hand, and, at their 
request, she sank, rather than sat down upon the 
mossy log which they vacated. Leonore, having 
been the first to propose her presence, was the 
first, also, to address her. 

" Queen Kate," she began, in a tone of deep 
respect, " it being granted that you have the rare 
and wonderful gift of prophecy, may not we be 
permitted, through your wisdom, to penetrate the 
veil cast over our future destinies ? We know 
it is a great favor to ask of you, but we shall 
highly appreciate your kindness, and deeply 
reverence the mysteries of your knowledge." 

Queen Kate was subdued by the courtliness of 
this speech, so different from what she was 
accustomed to receive from the young and gay ; 


but she found it necessary to feign a little re- 

" Thoughtless children ! Why seek ye to pry 
into those sorrows which the future kindly veils 
from your sight ? There is not one of you who 
bears a charmed life. Toils, and troubles, and 
blighted hopes, are before you all. Why bring 
them to your hearts too soon ? " 

" That we may be prepared for them," re- 
plied Leonore, promptly. 

'■' Queen Kate argues wisely," said Ellen. 
" Why should we, indeed, bring sorrow to our 
hearts too soon. ' Sufficient for the day is the 
evil thereof,' said our Saviour ; and surely he 

Kate's brows lowered a little at this, and she 
caught Ellen's hand. " Well may you say so, 
young lady," — and then glancing again at her 
sweet face her voice softened, and she added — 
" and yet the future has stores for you from which 
you need not shrink. But was ever a woman 
born to love, who was not born also to grieve ? 
Ah, young lady, there will be many to love you, 
and you will love one ; too deeply will you love 
him, and he will die." 

" Very likely, Queen Kate ; that is the destiny 
of us all. None of us is immortal Aere, thank 
Heaven ! " replied Ellen, smiling, and drawing 


away her hand. " My fate seems to be nothing 
wonderful, after all. More than half of woman- 
kind are born to the very same fortune." 

Several others crowded around, and each re- 
ceived a word of encouragement, dashed with 
bitterness ; for Queen Kate had experience 
enough of human life to know that in any cup 
the sweets are not unmingled. Leonore was the 
last to submit to the art of the royal crone. She 
approached her, and knelt down on the turf at 
her side. She was deeply agitated. The color 
came and Went fitfully in her brown cheeks, and 
her dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. 

Queen Kate fixed her keen gray eyes upon 
her face. She knew that every word she might 
utter would sink deeply into that impassioned 
heart. Yet she would not read to her any 
common destiny. She grasped her hand, and 
seemed to gaze very intently upon its delicate 
lines. Leonore's agitation increased every mo- 

" I dare not read your destiny, young lady, 
for it is sad and dark." 

" The very reason why you should reveal it, 
then," answered Leonore, her lip quivering with 

" Dear Leonore," whispered Ellen, coming 
behind her, and putting her arms soothingly 


about her neck. " Do not be so wrought upon 
by an idle fancy. You know, or should know, 
that these prophecies are but the capricious in- 
vention of an insane mind. Either laugh at 
them, or refuse to listen." 

Leonore heard her not, or, if so, paid no heed 
to her gentle remonstrance. Queen Kate, sus- 
pecting Ellen's whisper to have some reference 
to herself, determined not to be baffled in her 

" Since you will know your destiny, then, 
know it ! and may your spirit receive strength to 
meet it. It needs no supernatural powers to 
pronounce you a child of genius ; it is in your 
eye and in your voice. You are beautiful, too ; 
but for all these gifts, your destiny is dark. You 
will love early and passionately, but vain, to you, 
will be a hope of return. To one as fair, but 
less gifted, will be given the heart you seek. 
(Here she glanced at Ellen.) All after is dark, 
lady, though your life long continues." 

" Insanity ! I knew it ! " exclaimed Leonore, 
and fainted at the feet of the prophetess. 

Queen Kate, alarmed at the effect of her own 
idle words, strode rapidly down the glen, and 
disappeared. Ellen occupied herself in bathing 
the brow of her friend from the brook that sang 
carelessly at her side, while the rest of the party 


stood, some terrified, and others indignant, watch- 
ing her gradual restoration. 

Four years have passed over the heads of 
those fair girls since their meeting in the glen : 
and how much of their predicted destiny is 
accomplished ? Some changes have come to 
Leonore ; her parents are both in their graves, 
her kindred scattered in remote lands, and her- 
self an inmate of the family of Ellen's father. 
Imagination has lost none of its control over her 
ardent and susceptible temperament. She is 
still daily anticipating the fulfilment of old Kate's 

" The shadows of my destiny are beginning to 
fall, Ellen," remarked she, one morning, shortly 
after her removal to her new home. " My life 
has already joined its course with yours ; but 
they will not long glide together in this low, 
sweet, musical chime. O, Ellen, there are rocks 
and wildernesses which mine must yet traverse ; 
but may yours forever flow amid green vales, 
giving birth to beauty and peace wherever its 
course may lead." 

" Amen to the last clause, my Leo," replied 
Ellen, playfully twining a few geranium leaves 
in her friend's hair, as she sat brooding over a 
dull book ; " and as for the rocks and wilder- 


nesses — why, my dear girl, do you not know 
that a stream is never so grand as when it strug- 
gles along a rough channel, and never so truly 
beneficent as when imparting brightness and 
fertility to a barren waste ? " 

" But have you not read of torrents imbedded 
in deep ravines, shut out from the light of heaven 
by overhanging cliffs, singing only a low, sobbing 
dirge to the vampires that haunt their borders, 
arid " — 

" O yes, indeed ! " interrupted Ellen, " but 
those must have been wicked torrents, and have 
wandered sadly from the path of light where we 
walk ; so let us leave them to their merited fate, 
while we glide along at our own sweet wills, 
doing and receiving good in all our course. 
And now, my dear Leonore, leave that stupid 
book, and come and work for me. I have a 
subject for your pencil which I wish you to exe- 
cute within a month. The picture is designed 
for a benevolent object, and I know you will not 
fail to bestow upon it the best touches of your 
own peculiar genius." 

" Some pastoral scene, as quiet as your dear 
self, I know ; with a few meek little lambs sleep- 
ing among the sleepy flowers, and a little brook 
meandering silently between grassy banks.'" 

" Not altogether so tame as that ; nevertheless, 


a scene in which there are no tempests nor 
clouds. But come and see for yourself." 
• Following Ellen into a pleasant little apart- 
ment, she found her easel set in the most con- 
venient and pleasant position, the colors mixed, 
the canvass spread, and the subject laid out upon 
the table before her. Leonore stopped, turned 
pale, and looked inquiringly at her friend. 

" ' I wonder who has done this ? ' says that 
look. A certain young artist, who has been a 
fortnight under our roof, without exciting the 
least interest in your loving heart. Yet see how 
he has been secretly at work for you." 

" And at whose instigation ? " 

" Mine, of course. Now do n't begin to sus- 
pect I have a peculiar influence over the young 
gentleman, and so, out of respect to Queen 
Kate's prophecy, directly fancy yourself broken- 
hearted. Cousin Randolph is the last person in 
the world to fulfil such a prediction." 

" Why so ? " was the carefully-careless re- 

" Because he has not a single heart-breaking 
quality in his nature, being neither handsome, 
eloquent, accomplished, nor wonderfully intel- 
lectual. In short, a very common-place, good- 
natured young man." 

" A flattering description," replied Leonore, in 


a tone of ill-concealed pique, as she sat down to 
her task. " Is this the scene you wish me to 
paint ? " She held up a chalk sketch of the little 
glen described in the opening of our story. 

" Yes, and please paint Queen Kate in her 
sublimest attitude, looking into the illimitable 
vistas of futurity, with yourself kneeling at her 

" But first, may I ask for whom the picture is 
intended ? " 

" For myself." 

" What will you do with it ? " 

" Hang it in my own room." 

" I thought you had designed it for a benevo- 
lent object." 

" I have. Benevolent on your part, to make 
me happy, dear Leonore, when you are away." 

" My sweet Ellen, it shall be done. Pray 
leave me awhile to myself, till I can feel the 
inspiration of my subject ; for there is inspiration 
in it to me, despite the light tone which the scene 
assumes to your mind." 

Ellen, having parted from her friend with a 
kiss of girlish love, pure as it is artless, passed 
through the hall into the library, and thence to a 
little balcony overlooking the garden. Here 
she unexpectedly encountered cousin Randolph. 
She was about to retreat, but he detained her. 

LE0N0RE. 187 

" Pray stop a moment, my gentle Ellen, and 
tell me what good deeds you have been doing, 
that you look so beautiful. 1 ' 

" Compliments from Randolph Werner ! I 
should not have expected them." 

" Nay, do not be vexed that I call you beauti- 
ful, for you came to me so like a vision of some- 
thing divine — Pardon, dear cousin, I will stop. 
I perceive you are offended. " 

" I thought you were not given to flattery. 
At least, I presumed myself to be exempt from 
listening to it." 

" Ellen, you mistake me. I spoke in the en- 
thusiasm of the admiration I felt for one who is 
always so good and kind. You know me of old, 
Ellen. I trust we do not stand on terms of 
ceremony and reserve." 

"Certainly not, Randolph. But I trust you 
will never again call me beautiful, or divine." 

" Well, then, I will call you dear, and excel- 
lent, and kind. But tell me a word of — Miss 

" She is well, and employed in doing good." 

" That I might naturally suppose. But are 
you sure she does not despise me ? " 

" Yes, very sure." 

" Why, then, does she avoid me so carefully, 
and treat me so coolly ? " 


" Because she cares so much for you." 

" I can 't believe it, Ellen." 

" The violet that you gave her a week ago, 
still graces the little vase upon her table, its only 

" Is that the only proof? " 

" The book in which you sketched us, as we 
sat reading together, one evening, has been with- 
drawn from the library, and is laid choicely aside 
in her own apartment." 

" I believe you are the flatterer," said Ran- 
dolph, in the joyous enthusiasm of the moment, 
caressing her with the playfulness of younger 

Randolph and Ellen had been mates at school 
and at play for thirteen years ; and the close 
communion of feeling and pursuits had bound 
them in a relation like that of brother and sister. 
Their intimacy had only been disturbed by Ran- 
dolph's four years' absence in the city, from 
which he had recently returned, and during 
which absence they had preserved an unbroken 
correspondence. It was supposed by the world 
generally, that an engagement was existing be- 
tween them. So far from that, the word love 
had never passed their lips in reference to each 
other, and it dwelt in their hearts only in the 
gentle modification which it had assumed in 


childhood. It was the frank, faithful, all-recipro- 
cating affection of pure hearts and kindred tastes. 
They thought, felt, and acted alike. There 
never came a collision between their joys, or 
hopes, or sorrows. 

It might, perhaps, be supposed, that an attach- 
ment like this would supersede and prevent any 
of an intenser nature. With Ellen it did ; with 
her cousin it did not ; and when, in the sincerity 
of his confidence, he told her of his love for 
Leonore, the unselfish, pure-hearted, generous 
Ellen, with the lavish kindness of a heart all 
inwrought with heaven, promised him her sym- 
pathy, her encouragement, her untiring devotion 
to his success. And having given this promise, 
she fulfilled it with the beautiful zeal of a true 
and tender heart, whose mission is to do good, 
and naught else forever. 

Ellen had sometimes but a melancholy pros- 
pect before her. Leonore — that captivating 
child of genius — so melancholy, so intensely 
affectionate, so distrustful of an answering love, 
how could she be moulded into the confiding, 
gentle, religious being, meet for the companion- 
ship of a spirit so generous as that of Randolph ? 
Yet this was the task which Ellen had vowed in 
her heart to accomplish ; for she knew that less 
than this would fail to secure the happiness of 
those who were very dear to her. 


She had commenced her work, by disposses- 
sing Leonore of her melancholy fancy, that the 
shadows of her destiny, as she termed the pro- 
phecies of Queen Kate, were drawing near, in 
the consummation of the long-reported engage- 
ment between Randolph and herself. Ellen's 
carelessly spoken words, her light-hearted tones, 
had assured her ; and when left to herself, she 
half-audibly exclaimed, " That heart is too sunny 
for love ; or if it love ever, it will be the tame 
affection which could never satisfy him. ' Com- 
mon-place, good-natured young man ! ' O, Ellen, 
what an estimate of that magnificent character ! " 

If Ellen's estimate were a faint one, Leonore's 
might well be called extravagant ; for though 
very intelligent, and very cultivated, both in 
mind and heart, Randolph had few of those 
qualities which constitute magnificence of char- 
acter. He was content to be a good and useful 
common man ; he aspired to no brilliancy, no 
renown. In his profession he stood high, but at 
no dazzling altitude ; his progress was steadily 
onward toward the standard of classic excellence. 

The next day, Leonore was sitting in her little 
room at work. Her heart was filled with a 
generous love for Ellen, and she had almost un- 
consciously finished her figure upon the canvass, 
while the others remained yet in dim outline. 


She was disturbed by a light tread near her ; 
and looking up, her eyes met those of Randolph, 
who stood now quite at her side. 

" I fear I am an intruder," he hastened to say ; 
" but as I was passing toward the library, the 
door stood so invitingly ajar, I ventured to break 
in upon your study. You have been industrious, 
Miss Davieson, and what a beautiful work you 
have accomplished ! Ellen, to the life, with all 
her grace and sweetness. She is just the model 
for an artist or a poet. 

' A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food ; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.' " 

Strange what trifles will suffice to destroy the 
new-born confidence of a distrustful temper. 
Leonore was displeased with the very frankness 
which should have assured her. 

" Ellen is very beautiful," she coldly replied. 

" Yes, and good as beautiful," he added, hap- 
py in pursuing any subject which allowed him 
communion with Leonore. " I have known her 
long and intimately, and have never yet been 
able to discover a fault in her temper, nor, I had 
almost said, a weakness in her mind, save those 
amiable tendernesses which belong to all femi- 
nine natures." 


Leonore suppressed the spasm at her heart, 
and, conscious that she was feeling ungenerous 
toward one who was always kind to her, she 
exclaimed, with an enthusiasm natural to her 
impulsive temperament, " I, too, have known her 
long and well, and can testify that she is the 
very soul of tenderness and truth ! " As she 
said this, she looked up, and Randolph's eyes 
were upon her, full of love and admiration. She 
misinterpreted the glance, and thought the ten- 
derness so visible there, was all for Ellen. Her 
countenance again grew rigid, and again Ran- 
dolph's hopes subsided. 

" That picture has a history, so Ellen told me, 
but the details I know not. That tall figure in 
outline must be Queen Kate ! Do tell me, is the 
old creature yet alive ? I hope she will live 
long. She is the only one of the Meg Merilies 
race I have ever met. For the honor of ro- 
mance, I hope there will be always some linger- 
ing remnants of this picturesque character." 

" I confess a penchant for them myself, 
particularly for old Kate Mossie," replied Leo- 
nore, pleased that she had met some one at last 
who could sympathize with her in her passion 
for the crone race ; " she has wandered over 
our hills so long, and has made our woodlands 
ring with so many of her wild and crazy bal« 


lads, that she may be said to belong to the 
poetry of our country, almost the only romantic 
being we can boast ' in these degenerate days.' 
It may be said of her, as Wordsworth has said of 
another, that 

' She is known to every star, 
And every wind that blows.' " 

" Ah, yes ! and Wordsworth has brought forth 
from the humble retreats of life, as many of 
these unique and poetical beings as even the 
Border Minstrel, though of a different cast, per- 
haps. Scott's are of a wilder nature, more im- 
perious, weird-like, and lawless ; I think I may 
add, unnatural, at least as ice see nature. Words- 
worth's are the simple produce of the common 
day, the lowly vagrants from destitute homes, or 
the wrecks of gentle natures which could not 
weather the storms of grief and sin, with which 
human life so fearfully teems." 

" Yet I do not admire Wordsworth." 
" Do not ? I thought all women admired, or, 
at least, loved him. I am sorry he is not to your 
taste, for he is a favorite of mine." 

" You will find sympathy, then, with Ellen." 
" Yes ; Ellen and I have grown up under his 
influences, have made him our oracle among 
poets. Strange that you are not pleased with 


him, he is so pare, so heavenly-hearted, so gentle 
and beautiful in his philosophy." 

" Yes, but what are a whole tribe of Simon 
Lees to one Lara, a thousand Peter Bells to a 
solitary Conrad, or tens of thousands of Wan- 
derers to the glorious, the immortal Harold ? " 

" O, Miss Davieson ! but you cannot love 
those moody spirits, those dark misanthropes 
upon whom Byron has lavished the wealth of his 
inexhaustible genius. I can easily imagine how 
they may captivate the interest through the 
splendid drapery of poetry which is thrown 
around them ; but abstractly, in themselves, Miss 
Davieson, I cannot believe they strongly enlist 
your sympathies." 

Leonore was not pleased that he disagreed 
with her ; she thought he did not show sufficient 
deference to her taste ; and then, too, every sen- 
timent he had expressed was but a transcript of 
Ellen's opinions. He perceived that she was 
growing cold, and anxious to avert the cloud, he 
again alluded to the painting. 

" From the little sketch which you use for a 
guide, I judge that Kate is giving you examples 
of her skill in palmistry. Ah, well ! such amuse- 
ments are pleasing to children. 

' But scarce I praise their venturous part 
Who tamper with such dangerous art.' " 


" Then you are a believer, are you ? " in- 
quired Leonore, with much interest. 

" Not in the art itself, but in the morbid effect 
it produces upon young and ardent imaginations. 
I believe many minds are vitally weakened by 
the spell which these idle prophecies weave about 
them ; and then, too, this superstition is so at 
variance with reason, philosophy, religion!" 

" I see not why, Mr. Werner. God delegated 
the spirit of prophecy to his servants of old, and 
Christians do not deny that there is ' reason, 
philosophy, religion,' in the foresight of David 
and Isaiah. Even Miriam is permitted to retain 
the fame of a prophetess, notwithstanding the 
efforts which have been made to rob woman of 
her inheritance in divine mysteries." 

" I believe with you, Miss Davieson, that there 
have been prophets and prophecies, true and 
righteous ; but they had something more than 
individual destiny to foretell ; they dealt with the 
interests of the chosen people, or with the desti- 
nies of man universal. The petty art of fortune- 
telling, which aims at no higher wisdom than the 
matrimonial prospects of school-girls and boys, is 
but a corrupted fragment of old heathen astrolo- 
gy, and has degenerated into the most foolish 
and insignificant of all vulgar superstitions." 

Alas for Leonore ! this speech was quite too 


much both for pride and philosophy. One sud- 
den stroke of the brush swept from the canvass 
every vestige of what it had recently created, 
and hastily catching up the little chalk sketch 
which Ellen had given her for a guide, she tore 
into bits and scattered it from the window. So 
momentary was this work of destruction, that 
Randolph could only stand and gaze at her in 
astonishment ; and before he could recover him- 
self sufficiently to speak, she had hurried from 
the room. 

He stood as she had left him, with his face 
still in a blaze of heat, when Ellen came in, 
bright and happy, from the garden. She was on 
the point of breaking into some innocent enthu- 
siasm about the fine weather, and the beautiful 
flowers ; but she stopped, saw that all was not 
right, retreated a step, and stood hesitating, till 
her cousin came forward, closed the door, and 
led her to the picture, so defaced ! Ellen did 
not exclaim — she was not one of the exclaiming 
sort — but she looked a gentle inquiry, which 
Randolph at once frankly answered by relating 
all that had been said, and all that had occurred 
in consequence. 

" Do not judge her hastily, Randolph. Her 
temper is kind, generous, but too quick and sen- 
sitive. She has not yet been taught to control 


her feelings ; she will learn it all in time, so you 
must not, indeed you must not be displeased 
with her." 

" Displeased ! O no ! /, only, am in the wrong. 
I was so harsh ; I spoke so against all her inno- 
cent fancies, she has cause to be very angry. I 
cannot, I am sure, blame her in the least." 

" She will be the better for it, Randolph. You 
see the influence a word of yours can exert over 
her. That word has been against her only fatal 
weakness, and believe me, it will effect the cure 
that other means could not readily have accom- 

" O, Ellen, it is not safe listening to you ; you 
are too hoping, too sure that all will be well. 
No, no ; she will not forgive me, and it is best 
that I leave her ; I have already remained too 
long for my peace." 

" Stay a few days, just a few days longer, 
Randolph. They may clear away this little 

Randolph stayed a few days, to please Ellen, 
he thought, though it must be confessed he did 
himself secretly hope some reconciliation might 
be made with Leonore. He did not, however, 
see her again, except at the table, and then she 
was reserved and silent. Once their eyes met, 
and he thought she did not seem displeased ; but 


he could argue no hope from a solitary look, and 
as she carefully avoided a repetition of the acci- 
dent, he felt that it was idle for him to expect a 
reconciliation. Indeed, during the whole period 
of his visit, her smiles had been but April sun- 
beams, rapidly succeeded by coldness and clouds. 
Had he not loved her long before, he would 
scarcely have loved her now ; but his nature was 
not variable, and of all his feelings, his affection 
for Leonore the least so. 

The third morning after their unfortunate con- 
versation, Randolph having announced to the 
family the importance of his immediate return to 
the city, was met by Ellen in the library. 

" You are going, then," she said. " Well, it 
is for the best, I suppose ; but one thing, Ran- 
dolph, do not forget Leonore." 

" Forget her ! Would it were possible ! " 

" But I feared you might be rash — young men 
sometimes are so, you know — and in a fit of 
despair or disappointment — " 

" Engage myself to another ? No, Ellen, 
that is impossible. A love begun in boyhood, 
remembered through absence, increased in man- 
hood, even when met with coldness and — anger 
■ — such a love, Ellen, is not a weed to die away 
in an hour — O, no ! nor in many, many hours 
— days — years ! " 


" I have told you not to forget, Randolph ; I 
now give you more necessary advice — do not 
despair. ' Hope on, hope ever.' All will be 
well in time. I promise to be discreet with 
Leonore. I know her heart, and can minister to 
it better than others." 

The look of gratitude, so tender, so full of 
things which could not be uttered, which was the 
reward of this kindness, went like a burning sun- 
beam far down into Ellen's heart ; and she 
hastened away to conceal the emotion she did 
not like he should discover. 

" Come, my dear," said Ellen, some months 
after this, bursting gayly into the room where 
Leonore had retired from the breakfast- table, 
and where she sat with a volume of Wordsworth 
in her hand, "come, Leonore, the day is going 
to be fine, and let us spend it all abroad in the 
woods and meadows — a real gipsy life. See, I 
have filled a basket with books, and, may I say 
it ? with sandwiches and tarts for our animal 
romance ; for I protest, against all the poets and 
sentimentalists that have ever lived, that comfort 
is the very foundation of romance, as we will 
prove to-day. So come, take Wordsworth with 
you — he belongs to the out-door world — and 
we will have the merriest ramble you can think." 

Leonore smiled faintly. " There is no resist- 


ing your sweet entreaties," she languidly re- 
plied. " You do not need any of the good genii 
we read of in fairy tales. Such a happy temper 
as yours is better than the Talking Bird, the 
Singing Tree, and the Yellow Water." 

" Come, go with me, and we will find them 
all," said Ellen, tying on her friend's hat. 
" And you shall wear my pretty shawl," she 
added, - flinging a crimson kerchief upon her 
shoulders. " There ! you look really a P Egyp- 
tian, and I must say the character becomes you 
excessively ; " and looking up into her friend's 
soul-pervaded face, she murmured, admiringly, 

" An eye where feeling plays 
In ten thousand tender rays, 
A face o'er which a thousand shadows go ! " 

" The ramble of the gipsy and the genii," 
exclaimed Leonore, entering into the spirit of 
Ellen's pleasantries ; and thus chatting, they 
went forth to their walk. 

Following the village road for a few rods, it 
led them into a grassy, English-looking lane, 
bordered along the way with briars. The flower- 
ing raspberry scented the air with its sweetness, 
and the wild honeysuckle crept along the walls, 
hanging its pink buds forth to the sun. " How 
quiet it is here, Ellen ; I feel it in my very 


heart," said Leonore. " It is a serenity I did not 
love once, but it is peace to me now. I want 
every thing still about me, that I may feel and 

"'The stock-dove brooding o'er her own sweet 
voice ; ' a music something too sad for peace, I 

" My nature is different from yours, Ellen ; 
melancholy and distrustful." 

" Yet it may become less so. Let us hasten 
along to the foot of that old sycamore. There 
is a little brook babbling there, and it is cool. I 
have a long talk for you, will you listen ? " 

" Why should I not, to my guardian angel ? " 

It was a pretty spot where they rested. The 
birds were among the branches of the tree, and 
a spring bubbled up at its root. " I told you we 
should find the Singing Tree," said Ellen. 

"And the Talking Bird is already at my 

" About to reveal treasures, Leonore — the 
hidden pearls in your own soul. Have you 
never felt, my dear friend, when looking upon 
the creations of the great masters of the pencil, 
something of that noble pride which led Corregio, 
in the gallery of arts, to exclaim, 'And I, too, 
am a painter ? ' You do, you must feel it ! That 
glorious art which can copy the forms and colors 



of material beauty, and fix even the soul upon 
canvass, which is to the eye what music is to the 
ear, — full of harmony, of feeling and thought, — 
that glorious art, Leonore, is your own in no 
common measure. Few women have stood 
where you stand ; have had your genius, your 
wealth, and your leisure. What cannot you ac- 
complish in the way of cultivation, I had almost 
said, of creation ? Let not your youth die away, 
without leaving some 4 footprints on the sands of 
time.' Make yourself a work in this world, 
around which your thoughts and interests may 
cling, and which shall remain to those whom you 
leave behind." 

" An eloquent appeal to my ambition, Ellen ! " 
" And not to your ambition alone ; to your 
reason, your moral sense, and your affections. 
Has not, or should not every human being have 
a moral purpose in his existence ? Why do 
we live, if not to do, to act ? We may dream 
in sleep, we may rest in the grave ; but here, 
while we live, let us accomplish. Our wishes 
cannot all be gratified, nor can all our affections 
be answered. But this cannot justify a life of 
indolence and repining. If we are not required 
to toil for ourselves, nor for those we love, let 
us work for the wretched ; they always need our 
labors. It is wrong in any of us to believe that 


we have no interest nor object in life. So long 
as the poor are with us, or so long as there is 
wisdom to be acquired, or invention to be given 
to the world, so long have we a noble and en- 
during work. O, Leonore ! you are made to 
glorify this world ; do not fall from your high 
allotment, do not give to melancholy the sweet 
and vigorous spring-tide of your being." 

Ellen had risen above her usually serene 
manner, not into oratory, O, no ! but into that 
calm, fervid eloquence, which is so ready to 
touch the soul. Leonore burst into tears ; but 
the warmth with which she grasped her friend's 
hand told the feeling which excited them. " El- 
len, I thank you," she exclaimed, as soon as the 
sweet girl's caresses had allayed her agitation, 
" I have had glimpses of this light all along, 
ever since I have been under the influence 
of your bright spirit. I have felt, Ellen, a little 
of this truth, but it is breaking in upon me with a 
new beauty from your lips." 

After some longer conversation upon this and 
kindred subjects, they resumed their walk. 
" Down this way, Leonore," said Ellen, skipping 
along the rocks which made a stair-way for the 
little brook as it dashed toward a small wooded 
dell, enclosed by smooth green hills. When they 
had reached this retreat, Leonore paused, and 


looked around her, and impressed by the beauty 
and solitude of the scene, sank down upon one of 
the rocks, and motioned Ellen to her side. 

" Ellen, dear, I am in a confessional mood, 
to-day, and this sweet solitude cheats me of my 
usual discretion ; so I must go on till I betray 
to you all my weaknesses. I was in this quiet 
little dell once before, long years ago, when I 
was a mere child. How vividly it all returns to 
me ! The very rock on which we sit, is the one 
I occupied then. I had been hunting straw- 
berries on the hill before us with a party of my 
schoolmates. Randolph Werner was among 
them. My basket was filled long before those of 
my companions, for Randolph had been helping 
me, and I remember had brought me the largest 
and sweetest that could be found. It was a 
warm day, and there were no trees upon the hill 
for a shelter ; so I strayed away from my com- 
panions, and entered the shadow of these trees. 
I had been sitting here a few minutes, and had 
thrown my bonnet aside to cool my face, which 
was glowing with heat, when I heard footsteps, 
and looking up, saw Randolph coming toward 
me, with a wreath of eglantine in his hand. 

" l Why did you not stay to help the other 
girls?' I exclaimed, quite embarrassed that he 
should have followed me ; for I was then a girl 

LEON ORE. 205 

of twelve, and had read novels for several years. 
' Because,' he replied, ' I had rather be with you ; 
besides, I found a pretty wreath, which you must 
let me weave among your curls.' He began 
playing with my hair, telling me how soft and 
bright it was, and before I knew it, he had cut 
off one long stray lock, and stood holding it up 
before me. I tried to take it from him, but he 
kissed it, and hid it in his bosom. ' I shall al- 
ways keep it, Leonore,' he said, c and it will be 
the only person's hair I shall ever keep, unless it 
be Ellen's.' 

" O, my friend ! I believe my passions matured 
early, for even then I felt a creeping jealousy 
chill every fibre of my heart. To feel that I 
was loved no better than you, to know that any 
relic of another would be as fondly cherished as 
one from me, was more than I could bear, and 
I burst into tears. Randolph thought I was 
offended, and restoring the curl to me, muttered 
some little apology, and ran off to the party upon 
the hill. When he was out of sight, I tore the 
wreath from my hair, flung it into the brook, and 
stood watching it till the current had borne it 
beyond my sight. From this time forward, 
Randolph never gave me any open testimonies 
of affection, but many a little secret act of kind- 
ness continued to operate upon my heart. Final. 


ly, he went away ; and now, Ellen, that I have 
proceeded so far in my confession, you must 
answer me one question, candidly, as candidly as 
I have told my follies — do you love Randolph ? " 

" Why ask me that, Leonore ? You know 
I love him as I would an only brother." 

" Ah ! but that is not what I mean. Has there 
ever existed any engagement — pardon me, any 
desire for an eno-agement on either side ? " 

The strong look she fixed upon Ellen during 
her reply, did not disturb the perfect serenity and 
openness of her countenance. " No, Leonore, 
never for one moment ! " 

A sunny look spread all over Leonore's face at 
this reply, and her voice had a trembling joyous- 
ness in its tones as she continued, " Well, my 
dear Ellen, there was such a report circulated 
soon after his departure, and I was ready enough 
to believe it. I knew that you corresponded 
often. This was natural, for you had been com- 
panions from early childhood ; but I tormented 
myself with the belief that I was forgotten, and 
that you, only, were loved. About this time, old 
Kate's prophecy occurred, and it completed all 
that was wanting to my faith. You know all 
that has since followed. Randolph, doubtless, 
told you the particulars of our last interview. I 
am angry with myself when I think of my weak- 


ness ; but never was I so much benefited as by 
that speech of his about fortune-telling. In an 
instant, I saw and felt all the absurdity of my 
faith, and, governed by impulse, as I always am, 
one stroke of the pencil obliterated from the 
canvass every trace of that silly scene which had 
dwelt in my imagination, and operated upon my 
destiny, for nearly four years. Had I continued 
in this delusion, I doubt not I should have gone 
on creating the very destiny I dreaded, till it had 
terminated in madness or death. But I have, of 
late, been gradually opening my eyes to the 
truth, and I do believe now, Ellen, that Randolph 
has sincerely loved me." 

" Say rather, my own dear friend, that he does 
still love you, in spite of the coldness with which 
it has been met from the very first." 

It was nearly sunset when the girls returned 
home. The day had been delightfully passed in 
reading, rambling, and chatting of olden times, 
and times to come. A package from the city 
had arrived in their absence. It was for Ellen, 
and taking it to her chamber, she called Leonore 
to assist her in opening it. It contained several 
new books, and a letter from Randolph. Ellen 
began reading it aloud. 

"Dear Ellen, — Your letter should have been 
answered earlier, but I have been greatly hurried 


in preparations to leave America by the next 
packet. This movement is rather sudden, but 
the benefit of a compagnon du voyage, — a 
brother artist, — has decided me to go immediate- 
ly. I need riot tell you what an advantage it 
will be to my profession to visit the works of art 
in various countries of Europe. Such a tour is 
almost indispensable to a painter. I know not 
how long I may be absent, probably not more 
than three years. 

" A farewell blessing for Miss D. I hope she 
has forgiven me. You ought not to say that she 
loves me, Ellen. Were it true, I should be the 
happiest of men ! Where will she be when I 
return ? Will another call her his own ? God. 
forbid it ! " — 

Ellen observed the emotion of her friend, and 
having perused the rest of the letter in silence, 
she put it in Leonore's hand, and bade her take 
it to her own room, where she could read it at 
her leisure. She immediately retired, and Ellen, 
overcome by the trials of the day, was scarcely 
able, through faintness and agitation of mind, to 
throw herself upon her bed, and pray for the 
strength of which she felt herself daily more and 
more in need. 

Two years after these events, there was an 

LEON ORE. 209 

Artist's Fair held in one of our eastern cities, for 
the benefit of the widows of poor artists. The 
hall was filled at an early hour, and many came 
to see, who did not design to purchase. Not of 
this class, however, was the gentleman who 
stood at the upper end of the gallery, near a 
group of fine Swiss and Italian landscapes. He 
did not, however, seem so much engrossed by 
these, as by the conversation of two young ladies 
who stood before them. 

" That is the finest view I have ever seen of 
Terni," remarked the tallest of the ladies. 

" By which of our artists was it executed ? It 
has many of Randolph's characteristics, — rich- 
ness of coloring, distinctness of outline, and the 
usual '•je ne sais quoij which distinguishes his 
style from that of others." 

" Just what I was thinking, Ellen ; and he has 
visited Terni. Yet it cannot be his. How per- 
fect, how impalpable is the soft mist half hiding 
* the hell of waters ; ' and that fragment of a 
rainbow breaking out from the gloom and turmoil 
below — do you remember the inimitable descrip- 
tion of the scene as the Childe beheld it ? 

4 On the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn. 

An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 


By the distracted waters, bears serene 

Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn, 
Resembling, mid the tortures of the scene, 
Love, watching madness with unalterable mien.' " 

This was repeated in a low tone, but the 
gentleman lost not a word. 

" You have been such an Iris as this to me, 
Ellen," she added, in a whisper ; yet the gentle- 
man heard also the whisper. They passed along 
down the gallery, and as closely as possible fol- 
lowed the listener. They stopped before a small 
picture entitled " The Theft." It represented a 
beautiful young girl, seated at the foot of a small 
cascade, with her bonnet thrown aside, her dark 
hair enwreathed with eglantine, and her eyes 
lifted reprovingly upon a handsome boy at her 
side, who stood holding up a long tress which he 
had stolen. 

" Ellen, it is the very scene ! How came it 
here ? " suddenly exclaimed Leonore, turning, at 
the same time, to see if any one but herself was 
observing it. Who should her eyes fall upon but 
Randolph Werner himself, close at her side ! 
We need not attempt to describe the effects of 
this unexpected meeting. As soon as possible, 
Randolph drew his fair friends aside from the 
crowd, and gave them a brief explanation of the 
causes which had led to it. A sudden impulse 
of home-sickness, he said, and a weariness of 


travel, which, though it ministered to his passion 
for the beautiful in nature and art, conflicted 
with his love of study and retirement, had urged 
him to a somewhat premature return. He also 
remarked to Leonore, in a low voice, that there 
was a still stronger reason in the little postscript 
she had added to Ellen's last letter, — the first 
line she had ever addressed to him, — a line, 
too, which thanked him cordially and delicately 
for the benefit she had derived from the scene of 
the Spoiled Picture. The sweet smile of love 
which replied to him, filled his heart with the 
bliss of heaven. Who will marvel that it did, 
when he had waited for it years in vain ? 

On his arrival in the city, Randolph had seen 
a notice of the fair, and desirous of aiding it as 
much as was in his power, had sent in the land- 
scapes they had been examining. At the hall, 
he had observed several small paintings, whose 
designs were familiar to him ; he referred to the 
catalogue, and found the initials, only, of the 
artist — L. D. He felt sure of the name, and in 
order to discover whether she were in the city, 
had carried to the hall the little piece which had 
led to their recognition of him. That same 
night, the picture of " The Theft " adorned 
Leonore's chamber. 


In a small but beautiful cottage, on one of the 
lakes that, like a cluster of sapphires, sparkle 
among the fragments of that magnificent forest 
which once spread over the rich country of the 
Senecas, Randolph Werner has found a happy- 
home with the happiest of brides, his long-loved 
Leonore. United in their pursuits, as well as in 
their affections, looking with a bright philosophy 
upon the providences of Heaven, and cherishing 
in their souls a pure love of the beautiful and the 
true, they have little more of this life's wealth to 
ask, and few of its privations to fear. 

And Ellen ? Happy as ever, serene, thought- 
ful, and religious, she ministers to the comfort 
and joy of her declining parents ; and, content to 
bestow her warmest love upon them, she cher- 
ishes in her heart not a solitary regret that she 
submitted her early love to the guidance of 
friendship and duty. If any one be disposed to 
murmur at her destiny, we reply in the beautiful 
and truthful words of Scott : 

" A character of a highly virtuous and lofty 
stamp, is degraded rather than exalted by an 
attempt to reward virtue with temporal pros- 
perity. Such is not the recompense which 
Providence has deemed worthy of suffering merit, 
and it is a dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach 
young persons, the most common readers of 

LE0N0RE. 213 

romance, that rectitude of conduct and of princi- 
ple are either naturally allied with, or adequately 
rewarded by, the gratification of our passions, or 
attainment of our wishes. 

" A glance on the great picture of life will 
show, that the duties of self-denial, and the 
sacrifice of passion to principle, are seldom thus 
remunerated ; and that the internal consciousness 
of their high-minded discharge of duty, produces 
on their own reflections a more adequate recom- 
pense, in the form of that peace which the world 
cannot give or take away." 



Through the long night I slept, 
And back my spirit travelled to the hour, 

When o'er a wounded bird I bowed and wept, 
Or grieved to see a crushed, neglected flower! 

Again at daylight's close, 
Blazing in beauty through the dark green trees, 

I watched the star of evening as it rose 
In silent grandeur through the azure seas. 

Again beside the brook, 
With one sweet sister, and my all on earth, 
A truant boy, my changeful course I took, 
And woke the echoes of the hills with mirth ! 

Again, at hour of prayer, 
That sister by my side, I knelt me down, 

And said the words so oft-repeated, where 
A spirit pure was more than monarch's crown! 


Again my mother sought 
With sweet persuasive voice, to win my soul 

To Him, whose teachings, with salvation fraught, 
Can all our fevered fears and hopes control. 

Methought a hand was laid 
In silent blessings on my sinless head! 

Blest father, on thy brow there came no shade, 
And O, thy speaking eye such radiance shed ! 

Depart, thou cloudless dream! 
What art thou now to one with guilt borne down? 

Thought, burning thought, like lava-scorching stream, 
Thou bidst the sunshine and the stars to frown ! 

No, no! I will not bruise 
The last, sad chord that innocence has left: 

The only ray of peace I will not lose 
From the dark sky, of other lights bereft ! 

And those sweet voices plead 
With such o'erwhelming power, — "if thou wilt pray 

To Him whose bounty doth the ravens feed, 
His love will cheer thee through the toilsome way! " 

" I come, God, to thee ! 
Prostrate in dust, yet strong in faith and love! 

Shepherd of souls, unclose the fold for me, 
And plead my sorrows at the throne above ! " 


Like a repentant child, 
The strong man knelt as in his youthful years. 

And prayed through Him, the tried yet undefined. 
Till faith, bright cherub, smiled away his fears! 

Boston, Mass. 



The tempest is on us ! hark, how the rain dashes, 
And how, through the forest, the loud thunder crashes! 
The steeds of the whirlwind are out in their might, 
And the storm-spirits hold a gay revel to-night ! 

They wail through the sky, and they howl through the 

They tear up strong trees with one grasp of the hand ! 
And frail woman shrieks, and the bold man grows pale. 
As they pass on the wings of the withering gale ! 

Through the old, heaving ocean, a pathway they plough, 
And lash the green waves till they're whiter than snow; 
They heave the wild flood 'gainst the heavens in scorn, 
Till its deep caves, uncovered, like sepulchres yawn! 

Now swift o'er the deck of yon good ship they steer, 
And shriek in the fear-stricken mariner's ear; 
They rend the broad sail, and they crash down the mast. 
And a wreck on the rocks the proud vessel they cast! 


Now wo for that bold crew ! far down 'neath the waves. 
No mortal may weep o'er their fathomless graves; 
But mid the wind's pauses, a soft spirit-strain 
Sighs mournfully over the billowy main ! 

" Rest ye, rest ye, sons of ocean ! 
In the melancholy deep, 
Heedless of its endless motion, 
O, how peaceful is your sleep ! 

" Rest ye ! o'er your dreamless slumbers, 
On the ocean's oozy floor, 
Mermaids chant in pensive numbers, 
Strewing you with sea-weeds o'er! 

" Watchfully they guard your pillows, 
From the fierce sea-monster's gaze, 
While each prowler of the billows 
From their gem-lit halls they chase ! 

"Rest ye! not one pang of sorrow 
E'er again your hearts shall swell ; 
Rest, till an eternal morrow 
Calls you from the deep ! Farewell ! " 

It ceases; and silence sinks down on the main, 
As dies o'er the wave that sad, murmuring strain! 
'T is the storm-spirit's dirge o'er the sons of the sea, 
Ere away to their far northern caverns they flee! 



" I have fed 
Perhaps too much upon the lotos-fruits 
Imagination yields, — fruits which unfit 
The palate for the more substantial food 
Of our own land — Reality." l. e. l. 

Thus sung a poet, as she gave the history of 
the lyre, and breathed out, it may be, the secrets 
of her own being. She dwelt too much with the 
clouds, and too seldom stood firm on the solid 
earth. As she floated along in her brilliant, but 
vapory car, she was attracted to notice and to 
sing of but one kind of love. Like an angel, she 
sang of love as woman's province, but, unlike an 
angel, she did not recognize all woman's rela- 
tions in life. The glory of love in its power to 
beautify the affections of the mother, the wife, 
the sister, and the friend, was never discerned by 
her ; and the Actual of love, as an all-pervading 
and all-glorifying inspiration, w r as veiled and 
hidden. How widely different was she, as a poet, 


from Mrs. Hemans ! The one sang of love, the 
other of the affections ; and while we listen to the 
passionate breathings of the first, we see visions 
of languishing maidens, crazed knights, torn 
scarfs, and broken lances ; but as we give ear to 
the other, the glory of woman indeed passes be- 
fore us ! We see her as she performs a brave 
part wherever there are duties to be rendered, 
and wherever the good, the true, and the useful, 
are to be struggled for. Flowers are not the 
only language used by these glorious forms ; they 
speak in deeds of lofty meaning, and even when 
in the fierce contest of the heavenly with the 
earthly, the heart has broken, within has shone a 
holy light burning clear and pure, like the smile 
of Jesus when the sepulchre opened. Her poetry 
exalts and strengthens, while L. E. L.'s pleases 
young romance, and weakens the powers of en- 

Her song should be like the sweet sound of 
the flute that woke the Spartau band from dream- 
ing to duty, for we perpetually exalt the imagina- 
tion and glorify the ideal. That which is, we 
declare to be infinitely less than that which is not ; 
and thus we are fast persuading ourselves that 
fiction is to be preferred to fact, that to prophesy 
is better than to study, and that we should choose 
rather to dream than to live. We contemplate 


pictures, but think not of the artists ; and while 
we exult in the coming forth of more perfect 
specimens of the beautiful, the artists die for 
want of food. In other words, we think too much 
of what may be, to the neglect of what really 
is, and which must produce whatever is to be. 

The Actual should govern the Ideal. The 
Positive should dictate the Probable. If thus it is 
not with us, we shall mistake dreams for prophe- 
cies, and creations that please us will often 
prove less than the gem islands the navigator 
thought he had discovered, which were but 
clouds and mists, suspended by the winds, and 
painted by the sunbeams. The Ideal should be 
the foreshadowing of the Actual, " as light is the 
shadow of Deity ; " for shades should not please 
us where substances are not, as they then can be 
but the effect of a diseased vision. 

The imagination, I gratefully own, is a noble 
faculty. It is a grand spiritual artist, and has 
ever aided the outreachings of the emulous soul 
after the Perfect. It has a mission in reference 
to all the powers within, and all the relations of 
life. It is eminently serviceable to the social 
feelings ; it awakens the sympathies, and endears 
all the humanities of a charitable career. It 
is not merely for the rapt poet and secluded 
scholar ; nor for the Quietist who would hear 


none of the million voices that cry " go forth 
and act ! " but it is for the laboring, the strug- 
gling, the inventive, and every member of the 
artistical and industrial professions and occupa- 
tions ; not that they may fly away from the 
reality of things, nor to awaken in them an un- 
healthy sentimentality that darkens beauty by 
the shadow of its frowns, as it contemns what it 
deems to be the Present ; but that labor may be 
made attractive, as the sight of the beauty to be 
wrought out nerves the sculptor's arm for long- 
continued strokes on the marble. It aids us in 
visiting the past, in endeavoring to penetrate to 
the how that which is has been produced, what 
tributes have imparted fulness to the streams that 
run clear or turbid, what is now pouring into 
them, and what their course will probably be. 
It is a telescope to bring the far off and mighty 
nigh ; it is a microscope to reveal the minutia of 
the near ; and thus impels us to confess the 
Actual is not the insignificance it is too often 
dogmatically asserted to be. That which is, is 
glorious ! 

There is nothing insignificant in all the uni- 
verse, to him who has faith in the workmanship 
of God. Every atom is a part of the Actual 
whole, and essential to its harmony or beauty. 
That which seems most eccentric and most free, 


obeys imperative laws ; and we talk of " the 
wandering comet," only because we know not 
the Actual of its motions. The truth that the 
little is great, passes from us, because we do not 
see the mustard-tree in the seed. It is too small 
to attract our proud vision, and, unnoticed, it falls 
into the earth. We confess not the Spirit moving 
on the face of the waters. We do not pause 
long enough to witness the evolving of tendencies 

Do o 

to the infinite from the product of the past hour. 
We dwell too little amid the realities of exist- 
ence, and will not be taught the tremendous im- 
port of now ! Our life is too much a dream, a 
reproduction. We realize comparatively nothing 
of what we truly are ; of the immortal capacities 
of our essential being ; of the improvability of 
every faculty ; of the expansiveness of our 
affections, the ever-widening nature of our sym- 
pathies, the riches of sensibility. We lament 
the past, and put our hearts in the future, and 
are not ! We confess we have been, we hope 
we shall be ; but that we are, that we have now 
a being of infinite relations, and duties to be per- 
formed this moment, which can never be per- 
formed when the next step of time is taken, are 
matters that seem to be but little heeded. Why 
should we spend so much time in discussing 
" the realities of eternity," — sublime and sacred 


Wherefore do men seek to penetrate to the 
laws of the universe, but to know what is, and 
imitate God in producing desired results ? Why 
has not the mind always progressed in science as 
now, although the great book has been as it is, 
and ever open ? Simply because men did not 
patiently " ask questions of nature," and listen 
reverently to her answers. But as they woke 
from dreaming, and looked with clear eyes on 
the Actual, they rose from simplicity to sublimity, 
and the Ideal became more and more beautiful 
and commanding, as the shadow of the oak is 
more majestic as the tree towers to the heavens 
and spreads out its branches. 

It is the study of the Actual that has driven 
superstition from her thrones, and triumphantly 
answered her mytholgical books of magic power. 
She had, indeed, her gorgeous robes of splendor, 
enchanting tales and songs ; and while hearts 
quailed before the profound mysteries, music 
vibrated in the breast, and the soul was at once 
in terror and ecstasy. Yet the glory of mind 
was hidden, and the time of the bringing forth of 
the Actual was the birth-day of loftiest thought. 
The seer of old was a venerable man, and his 
gaze was reverent as he looked upon the stars 
and read lessons of hope and fear from the 
mystic characters of the illumined page. His 


mouth was an oracle, and men marvelled as they 
heard its utterances. The might of the Ideal 
must be confessed, as we behold the army of 
thousands explicitly obeying the word spoken by 
the seer, and halting, even in the triumphal 
march, at the uplifting of his wand. But when 
man stood and told the story of the Future, by 
the study of what was, calculated the eclipse 
centuries before its approach, and told of worlds, 
instead of a mystic writing, a nobler feeling was 
awakened ; the dignity and dominion of mind 
were asserted, and as the glittering links of su- 
perstition's chain fell to the earth, none desired 
to pick them up and reunite them, but those 
wedded to the Ideal. 

Fact is more wonderful than fiction. Did 
fiction ever present such wonders in reference to 
the heavens as the revelations of science and 
philosophy have presented ? No ; what God has 
produced is far more grand than what man can 
invent ; and even when the impatient speculator 
has been ambitious to produce wonders, and has 
employed imagination, unauthorized by facts, the 
after progress of patient and persevering minds 
has revealed greater marvels in the Actual ; 
marvels before which we stand appalled, which 
make us feel our littleness, and yet exalt us, by 
drawing upon and increasing the mightiest ener- 


gies of thought, lifting up our whole being as 
we realize the possession of those capacities by 
which we circle worlds, and comprehend the 
motions of systems, and the relations of suns, 
and by which we confess and adore the living 
Force giving vitality, order, and beauty, to all ! 
" How much is escaping us ! " exclaimed Sir 
John Herschel, as he treated of millions of stars 
in the Milky Way, and the possibility of knowing 
" what is going on in that abyss of stars, where, 
at present, imagination wanders without a guide." 
What glories of the Actual stood revealed before 
him, when he thus exclaimed ! What a proces- 
sion, to him, was the panorama of worlds ! 
What a tremendous import has his words, as 
applied to those who revel in fictions, — "How 
much is escaping them ! " Till they know some- 
thing of the Actual, they can have no conception 
of the immensity into which the imagination may 
soar, and prophesy of " worlds beyond worlds, 
and firmaments upon firmaments," opening a 
vast museum of wonders to instruct, delight, and 

The same spirit of inquiry finds many depart- 
ments to consult, as it deals with the Actual in 
matter and mind, guided by the sciences, and 

assisted by philosophy. Every where it per- 
ceives the capabilities of facts to set aside fictions, 


and transcend them even in the matter of grati- 
fying wonder, or indulging the passion for the 
grand and the sublime. 

What a theme is the Actual in the history of 
social progress ! Those who have led on in the 
march of mind, who have given the loftiest ideals 
to their fellows, have always been those who 
studied best the Actual, asking, ever, — what is 
man ? What is he capable of being ? They 
read best the lessons of the ages, and saw what 
past time had done, and what it had produced 
wherewith to operate farther. This knowledge 
gave them a faith which was not a mere feeling, 
not a feeble and intermitting pulse, but a part 
of their very consciousness, and their words 
were living forces, by which a virtue went out 
of them to enter others, to give the palsied 
strength to work heroically. How different are 
those who have fashioned to themselves an ideal, 
and are discouraged as they meditate on what 
they deem to be the Actual ! They are like the 
prophet's servant, who needed to have his " eyes 
opened," that he might cease to tremble at the 
sight of the Syrian band at the mountain's base, 
by having a view of how much more there was 
for him than against him. 

Men have sported with the sober prophecies 
of far reaching minds, and talked of quixotic 


schemes and Utopian ideas, when the living 
evidence of the truth was before and within 
them. They have kept along the common path, 
with their chin resting on the breast, wrapped 
up in the selfishness of some petty project, and 
have no eyes wherewith to gaze on the move- 
ment around them, on the passing by of the 
glory of the Lord ! From such day-dreaming 
the voice of Christianity should awaken them. 
It does, at times, awaken them, and the essential 
wants and nobleness of the soul are confessed. 
It is this confession, reiterated, and felt more and 
more, that convinces the mind that Christianity 
was designed to give a noble significance to life, 
nobler than could be invented, — to make the 
Real, as shown in every-day experience, teach 
the True, — to form of the soul's own history a 
thrilling poem, an ever interesting narrative, 
comedies and tragedies surpassing the drama- 
tists. To bring out to sight what really is, and 
show its significance, its meaning, is the great 
work of the Christian moralist and elevator. 
Hence, whh a deep meaning, is he called a 
" child of light." Light reveals. It is the silver 
ground of God's embroidery on the wide-spread 
canvass of space. Every line of the poet's 
descant is true of the Actual of mind : — ■ 


" God said, « Let there be light ! ' 
Grim darkness felt his might, 

And fled away ; 
Then, startled seas, and mountains cold, 
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold, 

And cried, 'T is day ! 'tis day ! 

' Hail, holy light ! ' exclaimed 

The thunderous cloud that flamed 
O'er daisies white ; 
And lo, the rose in crimson dressed, 
Leaned sweetly on the lily's breast, 

And, blushing, murmured, ' Light ! ' 

Then was the Sky-lark born; 

Then rose th' embattled corn ; 
Then floods of praise 
Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon : 
And then, in stillest night, the moon 

Poured forth her pensive lays. 

Lo, heaven's bright brow was glad ; 

Lo, trees and flowers, all clad 
In glory, bloom ! " 

" The Sun of Righteousness has risen ! " Let 
us fill our urns with his holy light, and walk the 
earth with a hrave step. To whatever part of 
God's universe we turn, on it that light will 
shine. It will reveal what he has written in the 
characters of love. It will show us beauty every 
where. It will make a rainbow of even human 
tears, and throw a smile on the stern features of 
death. It will go with us into the sepulchre- 
garden, cast its rays into the rocky tomb, and 
show " the place where the Lord Z«?/." It will 
be our friend on Olivet, to disperse every dark 
cloud in the heavens as Jesus rises ; and as we 


see the ineffably sweet smile of the Ascending, 
we shall cry, — 

" Chains of my heart, break, break, I say ! 
I will arise, and in the strength of love, 
Pursue the bright track ere it fade away, 
My Saviour's pathway to his home above." 

But his paths on earth are to be trodden by 
us. Bear up with a brave heart, and that thy 
heart may be brave, be good. Goodness is 
heroism, goodness is strength, goodness is Christ 
in the soul, the Christ of consciousness. To 
such a soul, life has an infinite meaning, and 
every grain of the sand of time is more precious 
than rubies. God is every where, and every 
where, therefore, there is infinite beauty to be 
discovered. The Actual is infinite ; and Look ! 
Feel ! Think ! Adore ! will ever sound as ani- 
mating voices from heaven. Let us heed them 
with our whole heart, and then shall our being 
become pure, and the soul will speak out its 
solemn, and yet gracious oracles, as it pauses 
amid the reality of things, as Jesus stood among 
men, and amid the show of his age, speaking 
with authority, the authority of truth, equity, and 
love, felt and acted in all the relations of life. 

The sun of truth is rising with far reaching 
glory. Let us go out upon the mountains of 
prospect. Let us look abroad over the hills and 


into the valleys, and listen to the cheerful sounds 
that come up from far and wide. Let us turn 
and behold the dense shadows and the noxious 
mists, and glorify God for the mission of the 
rising sun. There is that can make all bright. 
Let us descend, bringing with us the mountain 
air in preserving the expansion of our being 
there given, and go forth to do good to man. 
By doing good, we shall carry with us the never- 
failing spell to open the human heart, and un- 
fold its infinite treasures, the Actual of human 
affections. How little is the heart known ! Yet 
light is breaking in upon its mysterious depths, 
and man is being redeemed. Contempt is the 
product of fiction ! Love is the effect of truth. 
To know as God knows, is to love as he loves. 
Christianity is the great Initiator. It shows why 
a soul is more precious than a retinue of worlds. 
It tells of the Actual of our redemption, and dis- 
solves the vapory falsehoods that have hidden 
man's highest glory. It convinces that Sem- 
blance has reigned long enough in the place of 
Reality, and that man has stood too much on the 
Egyptian side of God's " cloud by day, and 
pillar of fire by night." It awakes us to live ; it 
gives an eternal reality to life, as it makes us 
feel the Actual of our being, as revealed in the 
Perfect Man, and impels us to weep that we have 



not nurtured more the germinating seed of the 
immortal Amaranth. 

" Life is what we make it," says a Christian 
philosopher. We may idolize the fashions that 
pass away and have a perishing being. Life 
may be all mystery, and our lament, at times, 
will be Hume's — "I am environed with the 
deepest darkness ! " We may deem that we have 
drunk all the " good wine " at the opening of the 
feast of the marriage of soul and body, and ex- 
pect only " that which is worse ; " but we know 
not who is with us ; we know not the Actual of 
the divine Power around us, nor how willing it is 
to " manifest its glory." Let us learn, feel, and 
reverence this, and as we advance on, pausing 
in the perpetual feast of the marriage of the 
soul to goodness, our acknowledgment shall ever 
be, " Thou hast kept the good wine until now." 

" The Saviour cannot pass away, 
And with him lives our joy." 



'T was an old grave yard, dim with massy shade; 

The long grass waved above the fallen stones; 
And where the sexton, with his careless spade, 

Had thrown from their long rest the mouldering bones, 
The wind, with something of a mourner's grief, 
Had gathered o'er them many a veiling leaf. 

Beside a headstone, green with shining moss, 
And overhung with grass and violets rank, 

A woman knelt, and wreathed the old, gray cross 
With myrtle gathered from a streamlet's bank ; 

For a blue stream ran there amid the graves, 

And nursed the wild flowers from its murmuring waves. 

Rich were the robes that trailed above the grass 
On which she knelt, and a long, mantling veil 

Of costliest broidery, hid the gleaming mass 
Of dark-brown hair, that o'er her forehead pale 

Its shadows cast, and fell in heavy curls 

Upon a throat half hid with strings of pearls. 


Her soft, white fingers wreathed the glossy vines 
With tender care around the graven name ; 

And something like a blush, amid the lines 
Of her pale cheeks, revealed awakened shame. 

She leaned her brow upon the soft, green moss, 

And tears of anguish wet the gray old cross. 

A child, a peasant child, beside the gate 

Of this old church-yard loitered ; and her eyes s 

With an expression, earnest, yet sedate, 
Were fixed upon the lady, in surprise. 

Twice the poor child, with pity in her heart, 

Turned toward the gateway, yet could not depart. 

Then she advanced, then doubted, and then stopped; 

Looked at her tattered dress and naked feet; 
Looked at the bright, blue sky — then meekly dropped 

Upon her knees, and with a murmur sweet, 
Prayed God to bless the lady who had come 
To weep beside that old and humble tomb. 

O childhood! heaven abides within thy breast; 

Love in untarnished streams flows freely there; 
Thy heart for every wanderer would find rest, 

For every mourner lifts a fervent prayer; 
And none so guilty, none so worn with grief, 
That thou wilt not essay to yield relief. 


The peasant girl was not unmarked; her prayer, 
Her touching attitude, her soft, bright eyes, 

Thrilled to the lady's heart, and wakened there 
Rich human love, in prodigal supplies; 

She rose and hastened to the kneeling child, 

Clasped her brown hand, bent over her, and smiled. 

" Thy prayer is not in vain, sweet wilding rose! 

I have a heart, though hardened o'er with pride, 
Which the soft voice of childhood can unclose, 

And fill with tenderness to heaven allied. 
I shall be better for thy simple prayer, 
For it hath broke the seal of proud despair. 

" Girl, thou art yet too young to feel the wo 
That womanhood can bring ; yet in thine eye 

I see a trace of thought which can foreknow 
The sorrows thy free heart may now defy. 

I see that trace; O, much may it avail, 

When thou hast listened to my mournful tale." 

Leading her gently to the same old tomb 
Where she had knelt in penitence and tears, 

She made beside her, on its borders, room, 

And soothed with gentleness the poor child's fears. 

"Nay, dear one, fear me not," the lady said ; 

" I cast my pride aside when with the dead." 


Strange picture was it, that poor peasant girl, 
With tattered garments, and wild streaming hair, 

Seated by one whom broidered lace, and pearl, 
And robes of velvet, made intensely fair ! 

Strange picture was it, yet they felt it not, 

For outward show in love was all forgot. 

The lady paused awhile, and memory sped 

Away to olden days and early dreams; 
And through the wild and tangled paths that led 

Her steps away from youth's bright, sunny streams. 
While thus she mused, her cheek grew sad and pale; 
Then waking from her dream, she thus began her tale: 

" Thou art, sweet girl, what I was, when a child; 

A fair, bright, laughing thing, yet prone to tears; 
A rambler in lone places, dim and wild; 

With nature, bold — with man, a child of fears. 
A cottage was my home, as it is thine, 
And poorer than thy garb, dear girl, was mine. 

" I had no father. On a lone sea-isle, 

Where bright birds sing, and skies are fair and warm, 
Far from his home, and from his infant's smile, 

His comrades laid at rest his lifeless form. 
And my poor mother, on this world's wide sea, 
Had but one beacon left — her love for me. 


" O, what a love! and with what tireless care 
She wasted strength and ease to spare me- want! 

While I, as thoughtless as the summer air, 
Spent all my hours in some wild shadowy haunt; 

There weaving those bright dreams of future joy, 

Which I have seen successive years destroy. 

" My spirit had a gift, a secret gift, 
Which answered only to the far, bright stars, 

When through the greenwood's high and changeful rift, 
Streamed down the light of Venus and of Mars; 

Which answered only to the winds and streams, 

The sweet wood-blossoms, and the moon's pale beams. 

" Dear child, perhaps thou canst not understand 
The mystery of this gift. And yet, maybe, 

Thou 'st heard of those who consecrate the land 
With thrilling song, and plaintive minstrelsy. 

'T was poetry, dear girl, that swept my soul, 

And won me to its strong, yet sweet control. 

" I saw strange beauty in the silent things 
That others idly passed; the small, wild bird 

That fluttered o'er the rose his bright, blue wings, 
The singing brook, by careless ears unheard, 

The wild flower swinging in the lonely dell, — 

All bound me with a strong and wondrous spell. 


" Rapt by the beauty of ray own sealed thoughts, 
I grew estranged from human life and love; 

And gathered round me, in my w 7 ild resorts, 
Bright spirits from the past, and from above; 

Angels were with me — heroes, too, of old, 

And dreams of love that words have never told. 

"I saw the future — 'twas a dazzling scroll; 

There gleamed in lines of light my own bright fate; 
There had the glorious triumphs of my soul 

Secured my name a place among the great; 
And I, a peasant girl, untaught, unknown, 
Already dreamed of poet's crown and throne. 

" I grew delirious with my own wild hopes, 
And scorned the dull and silent life I led ; 

Like the sleep-walker, who in darkness gropes, 
So 'wildering visions filled ray dizzy head; 

And nursing by the streams the secret fire, 

I learned from them to tune my untaught lyre. 

" The few old books that graced our little shelf, 
Gave themes to ray rude song; I also sought 

For dawning sentiment within myself, 

And clothed with words of music my crude thought; 

My fledgeling rhymes rang gayly through the wood, 

Like the first warblings of a nestling brood. 


" At length these dreams o'ermastered all my life; 

Duty, affection, home, became as naught; 
My mind with projects of proud fame was rife, 

And human glory guided every thought ; 
My purpose now was fixed — the world should know 
What hidden fires within my soul could glow. 

u Dear child, the tale is long. 'T were vain to tell 

The cruel anguish of my mother's heart, 
When to my cottage-home I bade farewell, 

And from her sight she saw my form depart. 
She blessed me when the last farewell was spoken — 
She blessed me, though her heart was crushed and broken. 

" I never saw her more. In giddy throngs, 
Where youth, and beauty, and a dazzling wit 

Soon gained me rich applause, that mother's wrongs 
Became like dreams; and yet remorse would flit 

At moments through my heart, and waken there 

A feeling not unlike its late despair. 

" But death released her; and a peasant friend 
Sent me the mournful tidings. She had died. 

Blessing her erring daughter, and her end. 
Was one of triumph, though her soul was tried 

By my ingratitude. This parting gift — 

This lock of silvery hair, was all she left. 


" A year of bitter penitence and grief, 

A season of wild tumult in my soul, 
And I again, to seek a vain relief, 

Mixed with the crowd, and let its praises roll 
Like Lethe tides o'er memory's burning waste. 
Alas ! those waves had lost their early taste ! 

" Sweet child, forgive me ; it is surely strange - 
That I should talk to thy young heart of love, 

And yet, I would describe the wondrous change 
That passed o'er earth and all the sky above ; 

A change that glorified the stars and flowers, 

And clothed with dreamy beauty all the hours. 

" I stood at evening in a dim alcove, 
O'erlooking moon-lit waters; and my heart, 

With the impassioned tenderness of love, 
Was more than filled. I had removed apart 

From the gay crowd that revelled in the dance, 

To give free license to this sweet romance. 

:e One came and stood beside me ; one whose words 
Were more than music — more, indeed, than thought ; 

May be, sweet child, thou 'st heard those woodland birds 
Whose notes with richest melody are fraught; 

They are not half so rich, nor half so sweet, 

As were his tones, with fervent love replete. 


" The moon shone clear upon his high white brow, 

And softened the deep glory of his eye; 
And tears were there, when love's first earnest vow 

Called for its witness from the far, bright sky; 
Alas! that pure and lofty heart, all mine, 
I blindly sacrificed at mammon's shrine. 

" I loved him ! yes, I could have freely poured 
My heart's blood forth in secret, to have spared 

The slightest anguish to a mind that soared 
So loftily as his; and yet I dared, 

With all my knowledge of this passion's sway, 

To cast his love, for worthless gold, away ! 

" I wedded one whom rank and wealth have placed 
High in this cold world's favor; but his love 

Ne'er on my heart one burning line hath traced, 
Ne'er can his look or voice my spirit move; 

Yet he is kind, and looks with tender pride 

Upon his haughty, though unhappy bride. 

" No joy for me in summer sun or air, 
No pleasure in the crowd that throngs my steps; 

I spend my days in tears and silent prayer, 
My nights with this dear token at my lips — 

This parting token which that mother gave, 

Who sleeps in peace within this humble grave. 


" My tale is ended now, dear, gentle girl; 

My guilty tale ; O, from its sadness, learn 
That peace is never found in pleasure's whirl, 

Nor where ambition's luring meteors burn. 
These bring no lasting joy; in humble worth 
Lies all the enduring glory of this earth." 

The lady ceased ; and turning toward the child, 
Saw that her sweet young face was bathed in tears; 

But weeping thus, the girl serenely smiled, 
Bright as the bow that on the cloud appears; 

Then murmured, " Thou indeed hast felt the rod, 

Yet he who chastens, is he not thy God? 

" Pray to him, gentle lady; pray in faith, 
And he will give thee peace, and love, and joy; 

Pray, lady, for our Saviour, even in death, 
Found strength in prayer that pain could not destroy; 

And f, dear lady, /, so young, so gay, 

Have felt it sweet to kneel me down and pray." 

" Pray on, sweet child, and God will give thee strength 
To keep thy pure young heart from earthly stains; 

And I, yes, I shall find that peace at length, 
Which now alone to me in prayer remains. 

Thy words shall long within my spirit dwell, 

And soothe my thoughts like some redeeming spell. 


" But thon art sad ; go, seek the bird and bee, 
The glad bright waters, and all joyous things, 

And leave these dark old tombs to death and me, 
For sunshine ne'er to us its gladness brings; 

Go, and God bless thee ! We shall meet again 

Where there is no more sorrow, sin, nor pain." 



"If you believe it, you will be a much wiser man, when you 
greet the morrow morn after a day's travel." W. G. Clark. 

All portions, all walks and ways of life, have 
their lessons to the attentive mind. And who 
that can learn at home, will not be instructed and 
improved in a pleasant journey, a journey from 
the clustering cares and numerous attractions of 
a crowded and busy life, away into the open 
space of the glowing country beneath the skies 
of June ? Shades of Johnson and Sterne ! ye 
who pencilled the roamings and instructions of 
Obidah, son of Abensina, and ye who wrote that 
stranger " Sentimental Journey," let me not lie 
down and sleep too long by the way. Geniuses 
of truth and beauty ! let me not dishonor ye in 
my waking delineations. 


The morning has come, — a hot, clear-skied 
summer morning, — and we are called away 


from the precincts of home. The rail-road car 
has taken us ; the bell, the harsh steam-breath is 
heard, and we are on our course, the dashing 
locomotive seeming a thing of tremendous life, 
rejoicing as a thousand strong men in one, to 
run a race. Spirit of steam ! What art thou ? 
" A spirit of life," truly ; yet thy " questionable 
shape " bespeaks destruction and death ! Whence 
art thou ? 

s ' What cavern deep, what hill sublime," 

gave thee birth ? And whither goest thou ? 
Most thrilling thought of all ! Thou hast al- 
ready ploughed the rude ocean in defiance of its 
storms, and rent the everlasting mountains to 
make clear thy passage through them ! When 
will mortals be content to say of thee, " Thus 
far shalt thou go, and no farther ? " Thus my 
apostrophe ; it is broken by the voices of the 
passenger multitude. Each one is engaged. 
Familiar and formal conversation — silent or 
audible reading — deep, strange, and unutterable 
thought — a pleasant laugh — a child's shriek, 
or a parent's " hush ! " are the accompaniments 
of the car as it courses on and on to its destina- 
tion. Thus moves the great earth we inhabit, 
with its multitude, whose thoughts, intentions, and 
indiscriminate utterances make no difference in 


its endless journey through the fields, and over 
the ethereal streams, and across the bright path- 
ways of spirit throngs, invisible to mortal eyes ! 
Happy is he upon it, whose thoughts are the up- 
risings of a holy spirit, whose words are breathed 
from the pure divinity within, and whose living 
faith can say to aspiring humanity, 

" On the way 
To heaven's high capitol our car shall roll ; 
The templ3 of the Power whom all ohey, 
That is the mark we tend to, for the soul 
Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal." 

We have stopped ; the throng moves out; we 
are scattered, never more to be gathered together 
on the " great globe itself." May we have a 
longer and happier greeting in that world where 
we shall all know and understand one another, 
gladdened by the smiles of mutual interest and 


What a transition ! from the rapid car to the 
plodding stage-coach, and that, too, on a day of 
promised heat, dust, pressure, thirst, and weari- 
ness. Here is a lesson in this travelling hive. 
You have your democracy in a stage-coach. 
"Whip" is president, by general consent, if not 
by particular election. The executive some- 


times assumes unwonted authority, yet his privi- 
lege is unquestioned. The " dear people " are 
often intensely near together, especially in full 
stage, on a June day ; and one hath no preemi- 
nence, only as this is gained by dint of personal 
attraction. Learned judges, and unlearned cattle 
drovers, city merchants, and back-woods log- 
rollers, keen-eyed, blooming, and bewitching 
belles, and prudish, imbewitching elderly maid- 
ens, " angels and ministers of grace," and Satan's 
most honored servants, all meet here, at home, 
— all wise, important, and filling no small space 
of actual existence, notwithstanding the narrow 
sphere at present occupied, — or else — all won- 
drously mistaken. Hark ! The " rising genera- 
tion " is here. Children have their places, yea, 
their voices, too, in this moving democracy. 
What though they please not, edify not the 
mass ? Endurance must be exercised, and petty 
outward ills be made to inspire a deeper inward 

Thus we move on, climbing hills, rolling up 
the dust of the vallies, crossing bridges, and 
sweeping the winding streams, — dashing up to 
the village post-office or inn, where small troops 
of gazers take hasty glimpses of our actual 
presence, as they come to seek " the news," — 
and wheeling away, with horses and riders re- 



lieved by the momentary respite. O, what a 
striking representation of the whole great multi- 
tude of us now out to fret our hours, or endure 
our passages in the great scene of human exist- 
ence. Well hath the poet said, 

" Life is a torrid day." 

I would add — in a crowded stage-coach. 

A relief! The traveller's home is ours. Bles- 
sings, yea, the freest, fullest blessings of a dust- 
smitten, sunburned traveller, on the " well-or- 
dered" public house opened for his reception 
and peace. How it will please and comfort the 
spirit. Thus it is in the journey of life. When 
weary and sick at heart, if friendly eyes and 
voices greet us, and hands of kindness grasp 
ours, and comforts are proffered in our depres- 
sion, how the real value of life rises in our esti- 
mation ! Reader, do not forget this idea, espe- 
cially if thou art a traveller. 


Morning again, and we are now far away 
from the crowd and din of the city by the sea, 
and from the level region round about, and have 
come where the rising hills greet us, and the 
melodies of nature make music. The sun rolls 
proudly up, with joy in his glancing beams — 


the silvery stream dashes on in light and free- 
dom — the husbandman goes forth to his cheerful 
toil — flocks and herds stray into green pastures 
and beside still waters — the songsters of the 
woodland echo their wild notes to the fragrant 
winds. All is life. 

Again we move on, and new attractions ap- 
pear. Beauties are living and breathing every 
where. Who would not fly the imprisoned air, 
dark apartments, heated walls and pavements of 
a city in summer, for the healthful freshness of 
morn in the country ? 

" Why this is nature's holiday ! 

She puts her gayest mantle on ; 
And sparkling o'er the pebbly way, 

With gladder shouts the brooklets run j 
The birds and breezes seem to give 

A sweeter cadence to their song ; 
A brighter life the insects live, 

That float in air along." 

And here I am in the midst of these delights, 
the sojourner of a few transient days, for the 
invigorating of body and spirit. And what shall 
hinder it ? The genuine hospitality of the coun- 
try is to bless me ; not measured, squared, or 
stinted by rules enacted and observed amid the 
eternal repetition of city life, but whole-hearted, 
devoted hospitality, which seems to say, if thou 


wert ever with us, all that we had should be 

And how are the friends of my heart, in their 
rural homes ? Impressive lessons are now to be 
given. Some are living with little of life's 
change upon them, the same creatures of sym- 
pathy, enjoyment, and love, receiving only now 
and then a faint mark of time's pencil on their 
brow. Others have been visited by trial, change, 
sickness, or bereavement ; they are more care- 
worn, and realize more the uncertainty of earth's 
enjoyments. The aged still cling to life, with 
their vivid or dim, yet fond remembrances of 
the past. And the young, impatient at the dull 
delay of the days, months, and years, are looking 
and reaching forward to new feasts of pleasure, 
new revelations of happiness yet to appear in the 
sunny future. It is thus with the living ; and 
together we recount past trials and enjoyments, 
gifts and losses, lights and shadows. We have 
all been taught something that should make us 
wiser and better children of our Father. Wo 
unto us if we do not improve the lesson learned ! 

But some have departed. Places once filled, 
are vacant. Death has been here ; and his 
hand blasted the dearest earthly hopes and an- 
ticipations. I must visit the burial-ground. 


Here, as I stroll over the green turf, and 
among the monumental inscriptions to the memo- 
ry of departed affection and worth, the past 
rushes back upon me, and stands out in solemn 
contrast with the present. Here is the grave of 
a mother, who, in the full glow of womanhood 
and maternal honor, went down to the dust. 
The father, too, sleeps here. His departure was 
not unexpected. He long waited to welcome 
death, and that, too, in the presence of a large 
and confiding family. Not even the sparkling 
tears of his youngest pet child caused him to 
falter as he walked into the valley of shadows. 
He leaned on an Almighty arm. The aged are 
here. They went down in patience and silence. 
Here is the grave of one of " the rude forefathers 
of the hamlet," who came to make his beginning 
in the " waste howling wilderness," where as 
yet no man had trod. His aged eyes beheld it a 
fruitful field. He was more than fourscore at 
his death. Four neighbors, grandfathers, of 
equal age, were his pall-bearers to the grave. 
Let me speak of another. I am now standing 
over the quiet resting-place of one who, when I 
last ranged these glad walks of nature, went and 
came with me. She was a creature of vivacity, 
innocence, beauty, and love. O, what beaming 


life was in her eye, what thrilling sweetness in 
her voice, what joy in her presence ! She was 
a wife and a mother. Many hearts were bound 
up in her being, yet she was taken from them. 
Her stirring voice lost its music, her eye its 
brightness, her beautiful form its full and fair 
proportions. Blasting consumption bore her 
away. There were whispers of peace on her 
dying lips, — messengers of heavenly hope send- 
ing out from the departing soul their signs that 
all was well. She can never depart from my 

The morning sun shines freely out, 

The robin's note is clear, 
The air is soft, and all is bright, — 

I wish that thou wert here, 
To ramble as in hours gone by, 

On river-shore, or hill, 
In valleys where the wild flowers grow, 

By rock or purling rill. 

But thou art not ; where is thy form ? 

Within this new-made grave ? 
Could not the magic of thine eye 

From death's encounter save ? 
To our repeated sighs for thee, 

Is heard no answering sound. 
Dead ? Nay, thy spirit in its joy, 

Another home hath found. 

They tell me thou didst waste away 

In stern consumption's hand, 
And that thy meek young spirit oft 

Sought the far seraph-land ; 


Till, in an hour of light and peace, 

The angel-signal given, 
That spirit took its ready flight 

Into the upper heaven ! 

Then I will not repine that thou 

Art where a brighter sun 
Shines ever clear, and years of joy 

Eternal circles run. 
Farewell ! I knew thee but a short, 

A transient moment here ; 
We meet where death with kindred loves 

Can never interfere. 


As I leave this hallowed ground, I must invoke 
blessings on the quiet church that guards the 
company of sleepers beneath its goodly shadow. 
Sacred temple of Jehovah's praise ! What 
though ye rise not in stately grandeur in the 
midst of the populous town or imperial city, to 
inspire with costly arch, lofty column, and 
storied urn, the veneration and awe of busy and 
fashionable multitudes, still thy portals are conse- 
crated unto truth, and thine altars unto holiness. 
Thy spire points heavenward from the trees that 
hold their strife with the mountain storm, and 
shelter the honest villager from the melting rays 
of the summer sun. And devotion findeth a 
home within thee. Humble hearts, unaccus- 
tomed to religious sophistries, frauds, and hollow 
pretensions, here hold intercourse with the Father 


of spirits, and " worship him in spirit and in 
truth." Holy lessons learned by this heart with- 
in thy consecrated walls, shall abide with it 
forever. In joy shall they visit me with a 
chastening and hallowing influence, and in trial 
and sorrow with superhuman fortitude and 
heavenly consolation. " For my brethren and 
companions' sakes, I will now say, peace be 
within thee." 

Can there be another place more sacred in our 
recollections than the church where our first 
youthful religious impressions were made and 
strengthened ? Reader, bears not your spirit 
witness with mine that it is even so ? Go back, 
in your thoughts, to that hallowed altar. There 
you first went up to worship. There the 
familiar voice of some faithful minister spoke of 
human means and attainments, of God's promises 
and mercies. There you have heard the sinner 
reproved, the virtuous encouraged, the doubting 
persuaded, the mourner comforted, the faint- 
hearted cheered. There went up the fervent 
prayer, the sweet song, and swelling anthem, 
moving the soul in its hidden depths, and bidding 
it give answer to the mysterious impulses within 
and around it. Often, in sweet accordance, and 
with thrilling power, have these old and familiar 
greetings spoken home to your heart. 


And they will never leave, but follow you 
wherever abroad in the wide world you go. 
Distance cannot eradicate them. Time and cir- 
cumstance will often tend to render them more 
vivid. A minister who had passed the middle 
age of life, once informed me of his sensations 
on a certain occasion when, in his own church, 
the choir were performing a favorite tune. 
While engrossed therein, he was suddenly trans- 
ported back to the days of his early boyhood, 
and to his seat in the old square pew of the 
country church of his native town. He sat by 
his reverend father's side — beheld the honored 
minister in the towering pulpit — recognized 
many of the faces, old and young, that on each 
returning Sabbath there greeted him — heard the 
choir — its leader's voice — the peculiarity of 
execution — all, as in those days when they 
chanted, in their favorite style, this same familiar 
air. The transition seemed wonderfully real. 
Such associations are indeed delighting, subdu- 
ing, and holy. When they come to us, reader, 
may we meet them with the blissful assurance 
that our spiritual blessings in the past have lived 
to accumulate others in the present, and for the 
time to come ; a conviction that our early Chris- 
tian Sabbaths were not spent in vain. 



I am now " at home," in the mansion of an 
aged patriot and Christian ; one whose early 
days were given to the service of his country, 
who studied freedom in the school of Hancock, 
Adams, and Washington, and whose soul never 
grew weary in her ways. One, too, who valued 
political only as moral freedom gave it grace 
and consistency. He paid his vows to the God 
of nations, the equal God of all, whose word 
long since announced to the world, " Righteous- 
ness exalteth a nation." A Christian of too en- 
larged faith to be bigoted, he can worship with 
all who are duly humble, and mingle his suppli- 
cations, intercessions, prayers, and giving of 
thanks for all men. I love to sit at his feet and 
receive instruction, knowing that too soon I shall 
seek him where he cannot be found. As the 
disciple of Socrates would listen to the latest 
words of that venerable sage, so would I treasure 
up the last sayings of this hoary-headed and 
honored relic of the past. 

Such homes as I here find, are the glory and 
strength of our land. Were it not for them, our 
national existence would waste away and fade 
out frOm the earth. O that we who are young 
could remember the influences which the time- 
honored and faithful exert upon us ; how they 


bear us up, and give us strength and durability ! 
Blessings, then, forever, on this paternal man- 
sion ! May the aged ones dwell therein all the 
days of their appointed time, cheered with the 
bright hopes and consolations of the gospel of 
peace. May the children find here the true 
home of the soul. May the children's children 
after them enter its threshold with gladness and 
joy, feeling that gracious spirits linger over, that 
hallowed associations cluster around it ; that 
here intellectual, political, and moral freedom 
found an abiding place in the past, and sent out 
their holy influences to live forever in the future ! 


The day-beams long since went out, the 
evening shadows came with their sombre faces, 
and now midnight reigns. A summer midnight 
after a refreshing shower ! The deep thunder- 
clouds have poured forth their watery treasure on 
the waiting earth, and now roll away into the 
distant south, and send back their farewell signs 
in successive playful flashes, less and less vivid, 
till far off and low in the horizon, in trembling, 
effluent beauty, they expire. 

But the skies above, — 

" The midnight skies — grand, boundless, deep — 
Halls, where the watching angels keep 
The passes of eternity. 


Regions mysterious and sublime, 
Stretched out upon the wings of time — 
Dominions of a Deity ! " 

Who, at this hour, shall read them, when all is 
glory, and wonder, and overwhelming greatness ! 
Surely, " night unto night showeth forth knowl- 
edge." Yet how little of this knowledge do we, 
dull mortals, acquire or retain. How little know 
we of this orb on which we dwell, much less of 
those myriads of worlds running their endless 
rounds in the deep skies beyond us. These, 
amazing as they seem, are only parts of Jeho- 
vah's ways, so little a portion do we hear of him. 
But we are not to forget ourselves, even in the 
deepest humility which God's work inspires. 
He who fills immensity, numbers the very hairs 
of our heads. He who drives along the chariots 
of the countless hosts of the sky, dwells with the 
lowliest of his offspring on this dim earth, and 
will never leave nor forsake them. Cheering 
truth for time and for eternity ! Let us pray that 
we realize it whenever, alone, we look out into 
the midnight skies, and think first of our com- 
parative nothingness, and then of our positive 
connection with all that live and move in this 
stupendous universe. Then may the mortal 
indeed put on immortality. 


Time passes swiftly during a visit of enjoy- 
ment, when irresistible attractions move the soul, 
and teach it holy lessons of truth and love. 
Such lessons have I learned 

" In the deep solitudes and awful cells 
Where heavenly, pensive contemplation dwells ; " 

or where the cheering voices of social life keep 
awake all the glad sympathies of the heart, and 
make brief minutes of long hours and days. 
Thus has passed the time of my sojourning ; and 
now as I leave these rural retreats for the rush 
and bustle of the distant throng, I go with bless- 
ings unutterable on the country — its pure air, 
clear skies, downy clouds, sparkling brooks, dark 
forests, rich valleys, green hills, venerable moun- 
tains, merry boys' shouts, and laughing girls' 
voices — its beauty and grandeur, where nature 
speaks with her strong voice lifted high, declar- 
ing the works and wonders of the Creator of all. 
Let those who partake of its gifts, pay their 
holiest homage to the Giver. 

The journey has ended. And this is life — 
the whole of it in brief. A few shifting scenes, 
a succession of sentiments, vain regrets, hallowed 
recollections, real and ideal enjoyments, hopes 
and raptures, and the traveller has entered the 


deep valley of shadows, and we see him no 
more in these walks below. Endless praise for 
the assurance that we shall rejoin him in that 
spirit-abode where change and regret cannot 
come ! 

" In that fair land upon whose flower a heavenly dew distils, 
That universe, whose farthest realms an angel anthem fills, 
That place where shines no sun by day, where smiles by night no 

But God himself, in glory, pours one bright, eternal noon." 



Beneath a slant old forest tree, 

My little Lucy sat; 
Her hands were dropped upon her knee, 
And on her head, she wore, like me, 

A rustic linen hat. 

My little Lucy was a child 

Of most angelic thought; 
With every feeling soft and mild, 
With every vision sweet and wild, 

Her heart and soul were fraught. 

She sat among the woodland flowers, 

Among the woodland birds; 
And ne'er through all the summer hours, 
Was heard within those fragrant bowers 

Such music as her words. 

She prattled to the singing brook 

That murmured through the wood, 
And from each scalloped leaf that shook 
Above her head, her spirit took 
A more exalted mood. 


She heard the wild bees' drowsy hum 

Around the drooping larch, 
And fancied that the fays had come, 
With buglehorn and muffled drum, 

To beat a funeral march. 

She watched the blue-bird by the stream, 

Outpouring from his breast, 
The music of her own bright dream, 
A warbling that to her did seem 
The music of the blest. 

The spangled butterfly that came 

And nestled mid the grass, 
What was it, but a form and name 
For some sweet fancy, void of aim, 

That through her soul would pass ? 

She gazed upon the silent lake, 

Through boughs of greenest trees, 
And saw it to its bosom take 
The wild swan and the yellow drake, 
The sunbeams and the breeze. 

She thought these things made up the sum 

Of human love and life ; 
And never dreamed the days would come 
When nature's voices would grow dumb 

Before the spirit's strife. 


Ah, simple Lucy! would that fate 
Had left thee that young heart! 
That all who struggle to be great, 
Might learn, ere yet it is too late, 
To choose the better part. 


S. C. E. 



In one of the loveliest valleys of New Eng- 
land, near the environs, and yet far retired from 
the noise and bustle of a city, lies the little 
village of Woodvale, like a bird's nest hidden in 
foliage. It would require an artist's hand to 
describe its fairy-like beauty ; to paint its green, 
sunny slopes, its fertile meadows, the old, wide- 
spreading trees, each an arbor in itself, the neat 
white cottage, and old-fashioned farmhouses, the 
pretty village church with the grave-yard on one 
side, and the neat, picturesque-looking parsonage 
on the other, and here and there a handsome 
dwelling, belonging to the worthies of the place ; 
altogether, Woodvale is one of the sweetest spots 
in the world ; a perfect picture of pastoral beauty. 

But there is one little secluded dwelling which 
a careless observer would never discern. This 
is a small and very humble cottage standing in a 


shady nook in a remote corner of the village, 
and it is so moss-grown, that it mingles, or rather 
blends with the foliage of the trees around it, 
and is scarcely to be distinguished from them. 
It contains four apartments, all very circum- 
scribed in space, and bearing the marks of neg- 
lect and desertion. Yet it was not always thus, 
for very many years have not elapsed since the 
little garden-plot before the door was bright with 
many-hued flowers, and rare and fragrant blos- 
soms graced the windows of the cottage. The 
woodbine and clematis which now climb at will 
over the house, or trail carelessly on the ground, 
were then gracefully trained over the walls of 
the cot, and filled the surrounding air with 
fragrance ; and in the little parlor were books, 
maps, globes, and various other articles which 
bespoke the literary and scientific taste of the 
occupant ; and childhood's wild, gladsome laugh- 
ter made the house ring with melody. 

Some twenty years ago, there came to Wood- 
vale a tall, gray-haired, dignified old man, ac- 
companied by a fair and blooming child, ap- 
parently about four years of age. All that could 
be learnt of his history or his business was, that 
his name was Cameron, and that he wished to 
purchase a residence in the village. The day 
after his arrival, he set forth to explore the place, 


and accidentally found his way to this lone spot ; 
on his return to the inn, he made inquiries con- 
cerning the proprietor, and having seen him, a 
bargain was soon concluded, and Mr. Cameron 
became the purchaser and tenant of the little 
cottage. There he dwelt in quiet seclusion, en- 
gaged in tilling his garden, reading, or instructing 
the child ; and at the close of the long summer 
days he might be seen walking slowly in the 
green lane near his dwelling, while she gam- 
bolled before him, and every now and then 
turned, and shaking back her bright golden curls, 
lifted her large blue eyes to his, as if expecting 
him to join in her merriment ; or sitting at his 
cottage door, with the child on his knee, her head 
reposing lovingly on his shoulder, and her sweet 
face upturned to meet the smile that always 
beamed upon her. Every body in the village 
looked with interest on that simple couple, and 
longed to penetrate the mystery that hung about 
them ; but the old man, though always courteous, 
was yet distant and reserved, and never per- 
mitted any scrutiny into his domestic affairs. 

In one of the dwellings before mentioned as 
superior to the rest, resided a family named Stan- 
ton, consisting of a gentleman, his wife, and two 
sons. Mr. Stanton had been a prosperous mer- 
chant, and having acquired a handsome property, 


had gratified his lady's love of the country, by 
purchasing a pleasant residence in Woodvale, 
while its vicinity to the city enabled him to 
superintend his business there. As his affairs, 
however, were in competent hands, he spent a 
large portion of his time at home, and having 
frequently met in his walks the recluses of the 
humble cottage, he became deeply interested, 
and determined to learn something more of 

His advances to Mr. Cameron had never been 
allowed to extend beyond a bow or smile of 
recognition, but he had spoken to the child when 
alone, and learnt that her name was Effie Camp- 
bell, and that the old man was her grandfather ; 
but he could elicit nothing farther, and had 
almost given up the pursuit, when accident 
brought about the result for which he had been 
laboring. He was one morning crossing a 
meadow belonging to his estate, which termi- 
nated in a long lane intersected by a small 
stream, and diverged thence into a footpath lead- 
ing to the cottage of Mr. Cameron. He had 
reached the lane, and was sauntering slowly 
along, when he was arrested by a wild, agonized 
shriek ; he paused for an instant, and another, 
even wilder and more fearful, followed, and 
rushing down the lane, as he reached the water, 


he saw the form of a child rise to the surface, 
and springing in, he caught and bore to the bank 
the dripping and almost lifeless body of the little 
Effie ; and his own home being nearest, thither, 
with the speed of lightning, he bore her. His 
kindhearted wife chafed her hands, feet, and 
temples, and the usual restoratives having been 
applied, the lovely child was restored to con- 
sciousness, and finding herself among strangers, 
earnestly entreated to be taken to her grand- 
father. As soon, therefore, as her garments 
were thoroughly dried, Mr. Stanton set forth with 
his fair charge, but not till she had promised the 
kind lady of the mansion to come to them again 
whenever she was permitted. 

On their arrival at their cottage, they found 
Mr. Cameron so busily engaged in reading, that 
he had not yet missed the child ; but when 
springing into his open arms, she told her simple 
story, and Mr. Stanton related the dangerous 
situation in which he had found her, the old man 
warmly grasped his hand, and poured forth, in 
incoherent terms, his gratitude to the preserver 
of his darling. The acquaintance thus com- 
menced was followed up by an uninterrupted 
intercourse between the families. The Stantons 
had found a sure key to the old man's heart, in 
their kindness and love to the child, and, in re- 


turn, he lavished a large share of affection on 
their sons ; and even fancied he could trace a 
resemblance in the mild, serious face, and grave, 
gentle manners of William, and in the bright 
eyes, and fearless spirit of Harry Stanton, to two 
dear boys of his own, who slept in their graves 
in a far distant land. 

Two years passed in this manner, and then 
the old man's health began to fail ; he never 
complained, but his friends soon perceived that 
his eye grew dimmer, and that his step waxed 
more and more feeble ; he was seldomer seen 
abroad, and oftener seated in his arm-chair by 
the window, poring intently over the pages of 
the Holy Book, which lay outspread on the little 
table before him. 

At length, one morning, as Mr. Stanton and 
his boys were walking down to the cottage to 
pay their daily visit, they were overtaken by 
little Effie, who was hastening to summon Mr. 
Stanton to her grandfather. On reaching the 
cottage, they found Mr. Cameron sitting up in 
bed, supported by pillows ; he extended his hand 
to them, and spoke in his usual cheerful tone, 
but Mr. Stanton's quick eye saw that an alarming 
change had taken place. When the greetings of 
the day were past, Mr. Cameron turned to his 
friend and whispered, " Send the children into 


the garden awhile, my dear sir, for I have some- 
thing to communicate to you." 

The boys left the room with little Effie, and 
signing Mr. Stanton to a seat beside the bed, he 
continued : " I have long been wishing to speak 
to you on a subject which has heretofore never 
passed my lips, even in the social intercourse we 
have so long enjoyed ; and you will believe me, 
my dear friend, when I say that it has been with- 
held from no lack of confidence or friendly feel- 
ing, but rather from *a sort of diffidence and 
reserve, arising from my long estrangement from 
the sympathy and kindness of a fellow-being. 
But now I feel that the hand of death is upon me, 
and it is of my former history, and of my little 
Effie, that I wish to inform you. You have 
probably already inferred from my name and 
accent that I am a native of Scotland ; I was the 
only son of a proud and wealthy laird, nursed in 
the lap of affluence, and instructed in every 
branch of useful and scientific knowledge, and 
my father dying soon after I attained my majori- 
ty, I thus early became master of a handsome 
fortune. I cannot say what habits I might have 
acquired, or what evil results might have fol- 
lowed this sudden change from heirship to 
possession ; but in little more than a year from 
that period, I had the good fortune to become 


the husband of a lovely, amiable, and accom- 
plished woman, whose gentle influence soon 
made me a devotee at the shrine of domestic 
happiness ; and when, in due time, we became 
the parents of four noble boys, and a lovely little 
girl, our felicity seemed complete. Year after 
year flew by, and found us still rejoicing in our 
unbroken circle, and, as we saw our children 
growing in beauty and innocence around us, we 
looked forward hopefully to the time when they 
should be the solace and delight of our old age. 
Alas, that we should ever rouse from dreams so 
sweet, that we should build such fair castles, and 
awake to find them demolished, and the dear 
delusions vanished and gone ! Truly, ' in the 
midst of life we are in death ! ' Our third child, 
a boy of nine years, went forth to his play with 
light step, and buoyant spirit, and returned at 
eve, complaining of violent pains and dizziness ; 
we laid him on his bed, and through the long, 
long night, we sat beside him, watching his un- 
easy slumbers, moistening his parched lips, 
cooling his feverish brow, and listening with 
feelings that parents only know, to his rapid and 
fearful breathing. But our tears and prayers, 
our watchings and agony, could not avert his 
doom ; on the third day he lay lifeless before us, 
and we left him, for whom we could do no more, 


to hasten to the couch of our youngest born, the 
sunny-haired boy on whose blue eyes scarce four 
summers had smiled ; but why do I dwell on 
this theme ? The wing of Azrael had over- 
shadowed him also, and his little cold and lifeless 
form was forced from the arms of his agonized 
mother, to be robed in the garments of the grave. 
" We gave way to uncontrolled grief and 
despair; we ' refused to be comforted,' and mur- 
mured at the dispensations of an all-wise Provi- 
dence ; ah, better had it been for us and them, 
had our other boys been summoned thus, in their 
youth and innocence ! Our next affliction was 
the departure of our two remaining sons, the 
elder for the university, and the younger to enter 
the army ; but our hearts were often gladdened 
by their presence, and their joyous gayety and 
frank, fearless tempers made their visits a holiday 
to the whole village where we resided. Matters 
continued thus for some time, and then vague 
rumors began to reach us, that Edward's conduct 
at the university was not just what it should be, 
and that Frederick was acquiring habits that 
must eventually degrade himself, and disgrace 
his family. At first, we treated them lightly, and 
deemed them unworthy of notice ; but as the 
boys' visits grew more infrequent, and their 
letters rare, our anxious hearts began to take 


the alarm, and I was on the point of setting 
out to inquire into the truth of the reports, when, 
the night before my intended departure, I was 
summoned from my bed to meet the bearer of 
evil tidings. Our second son, our gay, gallant, 
handsome Fred, was no more ! He had fallen, 
not as became a soldier on the field of battle, 
fighting in his country's defence, but in the ad- 
justment of a so called affair of honor. The 
night before his death, he made one of a con- 
vivial party, and while heated with wine, entered 
into a dispute about some trifling circumstance, 
with a brother officer ; both were hot-headed and 
impetuous, and high words passed, till, at length, 
aggravated by something which he considered 
an insult, my son struck his opponent ; a chal- 
lenge was given and accepted, and Fred fell ! 
The messenger who brought the tidings and 
accompanied the body, could give us no informa- 
tion concerning our eldest son, and when the 
funeral was over, at the urgent entreaty of my 
almost distracted wife, I set out to visit him. 
Immediately on my arrival I proceeded to his 
rooms, where I found him in a truly lamentable 
state. He did not attempt to deny that rumor 
had spoken the truth concerning his habits, but 
Fred's untimely end had so completely over- 
whelmed him with horror and remorse, that I had 


good hopes of his reformation. I prevailed on 
him to accompany me home, and when, after 
several weeks of quiet, and almost happiness, he 
returned to college with our united prayers and 
benedictions, we flattered ourselves that the 
prodigal was reclaimed. 

" For a time, all went smoothly, and we 
were gradually gaining calmness and tranquil- 
lity, when the distressing intelligence reached us, 
that Edward, having relapsed into even worse 
than his former habits, had been expelled from 
college ; and alarmed and anxious, I was soon on 
my way to him. I remonstrated and reproached, 
I threatened and besought ; I implored him for 
his own sake, for mine, and, above all, for the 
sake of his poor mother, already bowed down by 
sorrow and misfortune, to return to the path of 
rectitude ; but threats and entreaties were alike 
in vain ; he plunged into even deeper excesses, 
and was familiar with every species of vice ; the 
wine-cup and the gambling-table were his con- 
stant resort; he squandered profusely the liberal 
allowance I made him, and the immense sums 
which, from time to time, I was induced, upon 
various pretences, to give him, till at length 
finding that his unbounded extravagance was 
making rapid inroads on his patrimony, I refused 
to aid him farther, and bidding him leave off 


gaming, and retrench his expenses, I left him. 
Before morning, I was summoned to look upon 
the bleeding corpse of my first-born, and only- 
surviving son ! After parting with me, he re- 
paired to the gaming-table, and there risked and 
lost his all ; debts of honor were crowding in 
upon him, and, unable to meet the demands 
against him, he had taken a deep draught, and 
then rushing from the house, had sought his 
rooms, and goaded onward, probably, by re- 
morse and despair, had blown out his brains 
with a pistol. Imagine, if you can, for I cannot 
describe my horror at the sight of the wretched 
suicide ; but even my sufferings, intense as they 
were, seemed comparatively slight as I thought 
of the anguish his poor mother would endure 
when the news of this terrible misfortune should 
reach her. His mangled and lifeless remains 
were carried to his birth-place, to be interred in 
the family vault ; and I preceded them, by a few 
hours, in order to break cautiously, and by de- 
grees, the dreadful news to my wife. But gently 
and carefully as it was communicated, the shock 
was too great for her feeble frame, and ere 
many weeks had elapsed, I was widowed and 
almost childless. 

" Of the blooming circle which a few years 
before gathered round my fireside, and glad- 


dened my heart with their bright smiles and 
cheerful voices, one alone remained to comfort 
and cheer me. Never did a parent's heart re- 
joice in a fairer flower of loveliness, than did 
ours in the fair girl whose beauty and innocent 
gayety diffused sunshine and happiness wherever 
she appeared ; and as she grew to womanhood, 
we had fondly looked forward to the time when 
her children should supply to us, in some meas- 
ure, the places of those we had lost. After her 
mother's death, all my hopes and affections 
centred in her, and I became even painfully 
anxious concerning her future establishment. 
She had numerous admirers among the proudest 
and wealthiest of the land, but she uniformly 
returned a firm and decided negative to every 
proposal, till, at length, having refused an offer 
which I considered unexceptionable, I questioned 
her closely, and drew from the blushing girl the 
confession that her heart had long since declared 
in favor of Malcolm Campbell. I received the 
information with unqualified delight, for Malcolm 
was the orphan son of an old and very dear 
friend, the last descendant of an ancient and 
noble family, and the very man, of all others, 
whom I would have chosen for the husband of 
my child. Through the improvidence of his 
ancestors, Malcolm had little more than his name 


to boast of, but if fortune had been niggardly in 
her gifts, nature had most richly supplied the 
deficiency ; and the handsome, frank, and gene- 
rous young Highlander had won the heart of my 
fair and gentle Mary. In due time, they were 
married ; continuing, however, to reside with me, 
for Malcolm had promised, that while I lived, 
Mary and I should not be separated. In the first 
twelvemonth of their marriage little Erne was 
born ; and three or four years glided so happily 
by, that I began to hope my season of tribulation 
was past, and that the evening of my life might 
be spent in tranquillity and peace. But my cup 
was not yet full. 

" Towards the close of a balmy spring day, I 
stood at a window, with Mary and the child, 
watching for the appearance of Malcolm, who 
had ridden to a town a few miles distant, on 
business, and was expected to return at sunset. 
We soon discovered him approaching, punctual 
to the hour ; he was already within a short dis- 
tance of the house, and was returning the smiling 
welcome of his wife, as she waved her hand 
towards him, when his horse stumbled, and the 
rider was thrown several yards, his head striking 
against a sharp fragment of rock. With one 
dreadful cry, Mary sank senseless to the floor, 
and ere she recovered her consciousness, Mai- 


colm had ceased to breathe. I cannot dwell on 
the fearful scenes that followed ; suffice it to say, 
that three weeks from that day I was childless, 
and, save my little Effie, alone in the world. 
Every tie that bound me to my native land was 
severed, and I finally resolved to come to Amer- 
ica ; my estates passed to a distant connexion 
bearing another name, and with the remainder of 
my property, I embarked for this far land, and 
before midsummer, became, as you know, a 
denizen of your peaceful little village. During 
my residence here, I have enjoyed more true 
happiness than I ever thought to experience 
again on earth, and have gained, I trust, a true 
and faithful friend. And now that I have fin- 
ished my narrative, I have a last request to 
make ; I would wish to commit to the parental 
care and protection of yourself and wife, the 
guardianship of my darling Effie, so soon to be 
left destitute of any natural protector." 

" And in her name and my own, my dear sir, 
do I solemnly accept the trust ; and so may God 
deal by me and mine, as I faithfully discharge 
my duty to her." 

As Mr. Cameron finished his recital, his friend 
saw that the livid hue of death was fast stealing 
over his features, and hastily summoning the 
children, he placed Effie by the bedside of her 


grandfather ; with a strong effort, the old man 
placed his withered hand on the head of the 
child, and with the benediction yet on his lips, 
expired ! 

Years passed. The little orphan, Effie Camp- 
bell, grew, in her young, guileless beauty, to 
womanhood, cherished by her adopted parents 
with all the tenderness usually lavished on an 
only and beloved daughter, and regarded with a 
feeling little short of devotion by their two sons, 
of whom the elder, William, a grave and serious 
youth, was now acting partner in his father's 
mercantile concerns, while the younger, the 
fearless, dauntless Harry, had chosen a sailor's 
life, and was already captain of a trim and gal- 
lant vessel. Nor was her gentle influence felt 
alone in the home-circle ; for her generous heart 
had early prompted her to seek out the abodes of 
poverty and suffering, and while her hands min- 
istered to their need, her sweet voice cheered 
them with words of comfort and peace, and old 
or young, grave or gay, sad or light-hearted, 
every body hailed with delight the presence of 
sweet Effie Campbell. 

Early in their acquaintance, the Stantons had 
styled her the Lily of the Vale ; the villagers 
soon adopted the appellation, and now she was 
seldom called by any other. Well did her 



graceful and delicate beauty deserve the name ; 
her figure was small, and slight even to fragility ; 
her complexion of that pale, snowy purity, which 
the faintest tinge of color would sully ; exqui- 
sitely moulded features, large, deep blue eyes, 
clear and soft as a Neapolitan sky, full, rich 
scarlet lips, and a voice and smile of bewitching 
sweetness — conscious of her rare loveliness, yet 
prizing it only because of the pleasure it afforded 
her friends — modest and gentle withal, and 
diffusing the rich odor of her virtues on all 
around her, yet shrinking from observation, even 
as the fair and fragrant flower from which she 
derived her name. 

I have before said that the Stantons had re- 
deemed the promise given to the old man on his 
deathbed, and that the Lily had been nurtured 
fondly and tenderly ; and as they watched the 
developement of her budding virtues and beauties, 
it had long been the dearest wish of their hearts, 
that the tie which now bound her to them should 
be more closely cemented, and that, by a mar- 
riage with one of their sons, she might become 
indeed their daughter, as she had long been the 
dear child of their affections. In forming this 
project, their thoughts had always inclined to- 
wards William, as being best suited, by his mild 
and even temperament, and the gentle serious- 


ness of his manners, to undertake the future 
guidance and protection of the fair and fragile 
Lily. That they were thus consulting her 
wishes and happiness, they never, for a moment, 
doubted ; for though, in their childish days, if a 
shadow of preference could be discerned in her 
manners towards the brothers, Harry was the 
favorite, yet, as she advanced towards woman- 
hood, her behavior to him became shy and re- 
served, while William was her constant and 
chosen attendant. 

The Lily had completed her sixteenth year, 
and, as yet, not a word had been breathed to 
her on the subject, when a letter arrived from 
William which at once overset all the long-cher- 
ished plans, by announcing his intended mar- 
riage with a young lady in the city, where he 
resided. Never did the news of a son's betrothal 
produce such consternation as filled the hearts of 
Mr. and Mrs. Stanton while perusing the letter ; 
and their distress was not lessened by turning 
their thoughts to Effie. There was no alterna- 
tive, however, but to communicate the tidings as 
gently as possible ; and, with fear and trembling 
the mother announced William's approaching 
marriage. To her unmingled surprise, it was 
received by the object of her solicitude with 
sparkling eyes, and expressions of unfeigned de- 


light; and in the plenitude of her joy at this 
unexpected relief, Mrs. Stanton poured forth to 
Effie all her past hopes, wishes, and plans. 

"And so, after all, my sweet Lily of the 
Vale, you must remain our daughter only by 
adoption, and by and by you will be taken from 
us to grace a stranger's home. What a pity that 
you and William could not have loved each 
other ! " 

u Do not distress yourself on that account, my 
more than mother," replied the Lily, as she hid 
her blushing face on the shoulder of her friend ; 
" but in your zeal for marrying me to William, 
and your regret at the disappointment, you seem 
to have forgotten that you have another son — " 

" And you do love my dear, brave, gallant 
sailor-boy," interrupted the delighted mother ; 
" and he — O, I am sure he must love you ! " 

" You have guessed aright, my dear friend. 
William, with his gentle ways, quiet, kind atten- 
tions, and almost faultless character, I have ever 
looked up to with mingled reverence and affec- 
tion, as to a beloved elder brother ; but Harry, 
our daring, high-spirited, generous-hearted Har- 
ry, always involved in some danger or peril, 
always sacrificing his own interests to promote 
that of others, and requiring constant thought 
and solicitude, Mm I have loved, passionately, 


devotedly as even you could wish ; I know that 
it is fully and truly returned, and it wants only 
the sanction of those who are nearest and dearest 
to us, to make the happiness of your children 
complete.'" And ere a week had elapsed, Harry 
Stanton was at home, and consent and blessing 
were joyfully accorded by the happy parents. 

When the engagement of Harry and Effie was 
first known, it was a matter of no small wonder 
and surprise to the villagers, that the delicate, 
shrinking Lily of the Vale should have dared to 
love the wild, impetuous young sailor ; but when, 
the Sabbath after his return, they were seen on 
their way to church, her slight, fairy-like figure, 
and pale, sweet face, admirably contrasting with 
his manly person, and sunburnt, yet handsome 
countenance, the lookers on retracted their opin- 
ion, and pronounced them a comely and well- 
matched pair. 

Swiftly and happily sped the time while Harry 
Stanton remained at home, and soon the day of 
his departure came ; with full hearts and brim- 
ming eyes, his friends bade him God speed ! and 
he went forth once more to brave the dangers 
and the perils of the sea, with the hope that 
when his voyage was ended, he should return 
to claim the Lily as his bride. O, how anxious- 
ly were the daily journals perused by every 


member of the Stanton family, and the ship 
news industriously conned, to gather the slightest 
tidings of the Fairy Queen and her gallant 
young captain ; and when the voice of prayer 
and thanksgiving arose from the domestic altar, 
how earnestly was he remembered, and a bles- 
sing implored to rest upon the wanderer whose 
path was on the mighty deep. Once, a vessel, 
returning from the port to which he sailed, 
brought intelligence of his safe arrival there, and 
letters to each member of the family. He wrote 
in good health and high spirits ; he had had a 
short and pleasant passage, and stated, that as 
soon as his cargo was sold, and his vessel re- 
laden, he should set out on his return, and 
hoped, Providence permitting, to pass a " merry 
Christmas " at home. Never had that season 
been looked forward to with such joyful antici- 
pation, and as the day approached, every unusual 
noise brought the rich blood to the cheek of the 
Lily, and made her sweet face radiant with the 
light of expectation. 

But the day came and passed, and yet he 
came not ; a week elapsed and he made not his 
appearance, and the Lily's step became listless 
and heavy, the snowy purity of her cheek gave 
way to a deadly paleness, her blue eyes were 
rarely raised from the shadow of their dark, 


drooping lashes, and she was evidently fast sink- 
ing beneath the heart-sickness of hope deferred. 
Another week went by, and, added to their 
agonizing fears for their son, the parents were 
now filled with solicitude for the fragile creature 
whose life seemed to hang on the thread of his 
destiny. But this dreadful suspense was at length 
brought to an end, to be exchanged for the equal- 
ly terrible reality. 

One morning, the daily papers arrived, while 
the family were at breakfast, and Mr. Stanton, 
as usual, first turned to the ship news ; as he 
read, his wife and Effie perceived the color for- 
sake his face, and comprehending the truth at a 
glance, they breathlessly implored him to termi- 
nate their suspense, and tell them the worst. 
With a voice rendered husky and almost unin- 
telligible by emotion, he read the following para- 
graph : Lost, in a tremendous storm and 
gale, December 1st, on her passage home- 
ward, the brig Fairy Queen, Capt. Stanton. 
All on board perished ! The vessel which 
brought the melancholy news had been near the 
Fairy Queen when she foundered, but was un- 
able to render her the slighest assistance ; she 
had barely escaped the same fate herself, with a 
loss of spars, rigging, &c, and had returned in 
a deplorable state, wholly unfit for service. 


During the reading of that fatal paragraph, 
Effie Campbell had sat there, looking more like 
a marble statue than a thing of life ; but as the 
last words rang in her ears, her unnatural calm- 
ness deserted her, and with a cry of anguish, she 
sank to the floor in a long and deathlike swoon. 
When consciousness returned, she found herself 
on the bed in her own little room, with her 
adopted parents on one side, and the doctor and 
minister, who had both known and loved her 
from childhood, on the other ; instantly the cause 
of her illness returned to her mind, and wildly 
glancing round, she exclaimed, " Then it was 
not a dream, and my Harry is drowned — dead 
— and I shall never see his face again ! " and 
covering her eyes with her hands, a copious 
burst of tears relieved her surcharged heart. 
They let her grief have its way, and when its 
first violence had subsided, and the silence was 
only broken by the low, stifled sobs of Effie and 
the bereaved parents, the deep, sonorous voice 
of the gray-haired minister was heard, saying, 
" The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away ; 
blessed be the name of the Lord." Then kneel- 
ing by the bedside, he prayed deeply and fer- 
vently that this bereavement might be sanctified 
and blessed to every member of that mourning 
family ; and they arose from their knees resigned 


and soothed, for the peace of God had entered 
their hearts. 

With a spirit chastened and subdued, Effie 
Campbell returned to the usual routine of duties 
and employments, and a stranger who had 
looked on her fair, meek face, would never have 
dreamed that sorrow had cast a shadow over 
it ; but when the balmy spring opened, and all 
nature seemed reviving, the beautiful Lily began 
to droop. She uttered no complaint, and the 
watchful eye of love could alone have discerned 
the change ; but who that knew her, did not love 
sweet Effie Campbell ? Mrs. Stanton soon saw 
with grief and alarm that her movements grew 
languid and feeble, and her graceful figure al- 
most shadowy in its proportions, while the light, 
silvery laugh that had been wont to fall like 
music-notes on the ear, was now seldom, if ever 
heard ; and the villagers, when she passed their 
dwellings, shook their heads and whispered to 
each other, that the Lily of the Vale was fading 
fast ! Still she was never missed from her ac- 
customed haunts ; her rambles were taken as 
usual, she was constant at church and Sabbath 
school, her daily visits to the sick and poor were 
never suspended, and often, as the season ad- 
vanced, she might be seen in some green, 
shady place, surrounded by a group of smiling 


children, gathering the dewy spring flowers and 
twining them into wreaths and boquets for her 
juvenile companions. 

But though she thus strove to appear un- 
changed to her friends, the Lily had long known 
and felt that she was dying, and her spirit already 
yearned to throw off its earthly fetters, and soar 
untrammeled to the world of light, there to bask 
in the eternal sunshine which streams in cloud- 
less glory from the throne of the living God ! 
Her birth-day was now at hand, the bright, 
balmy first of June, and early in the morning, a 
group of village girls were seen wending their 
way towards her dwelling, the foremost bearing a 
crown of roses, and the others laden with boquets 
of flowers, a simple and graceful offering to the 
sweet Lily of the Vale. When they reached the 
house, the family were awaiting her appearance 
at the breakfast-table, and Mrs. Stanton went to 
summon her. She called her name, but no 
answer was returned, and alarmed, she scarce 
knew why, she entered the chamber, and found 
Effie seated at the open window over which 
Harry had trained a profusion of white roses and 
the starry jasmine, and the room was filled with 
their delicious perfume. Again the mother 
spoke, and then she bent her ear to the mouth of 
the apparently sleeping girl ; but her sleep was 


that from which there is no awaking, and there 
she sat with upturned face, the long dark lashes 
drooping over the marble cheek, her lips slightly 
apart, and a smile of unutterable sweetness play- 
ing about them, as if her last thoughts had been 
soothing and pleasant. The Bible lay open on 
her knee, one hand was beneath it, and the other 
rested on the outspread page ; her thin, transpa- 
rent finger pointing to the words of the mourning 
monarch of Israel, " I shall go to him, but he 
shall not return to me ; " between the leaves lay 
the paragraph containing the news of Harry's 
death, and beside it, a lock of his hair, which she 
had severed the day before his last departure. 

Her last thoughts had been of him, her last 
hope that of a reunion with him. Before night, 
the Lily of the Vale was in her coffin ; she was 
too pure and beautiful to dwell longer amid the 
grosser things of earth, and her heavenly Father 
had transplanted her, in all her innocence and 
beauty, to the gardens of Paradise, where the 
flowers never wither or fade. 

Should chance ever lead you, fair reader, to 
the village of Wood vale, do not leave it till you 
have visited its pretty, quiet little grave-yard ; 
and there, in a remote and pleasant corner, on a 
grassy knoll, and half hidden by the long, droop- 
ing branches of a graceful willow, stands a plain, 


but elegant monument of white marble, bearing 
on one side an inscription to the memory of him 
whose bones lie whitening in the caves of ocean, 
and, on the other, a simple tribute to the last 
of the Clan — the sweet Lily of the Yale. 


BY - J. G. ADAMS. 

[The annexed engraving, from a painting by Mr. Burt, represents 
a landscape of the Connecticut river valley. Time, morning. It is 
a picture of the quiet and beautiful in mountain and river scenery. 
The grouping of the forest trees, the array of the smaller foliage, the 
still stream, the distant hills, the light mist going up from the valley 
and leaving the mountain top, all give a rich and glowing life to the 
whole. It is a genuine New England " forest sanctuary," where 
the soul of genius, the lover of nature's truth and beauty, may be 
fined with sacred thoughts, and enjoy holy communings.] 

Morning with nature ! far and near 

Stream out the mellow, golden rays 
Of summer light ; and beauty here 

Hath touched each thing on which we gaze. 
What inspiration ! Fain would I 
Awake my spirit-minstrelsy. 

Morning among the joyous hills, 
And down the teeming valley, where 

From silver streams and crystal rills 
Flows old Connecticut, as fair 

As when of yore the red man rude 

First wandered in its solitude. 


Round mossy cliff and woody height 
Float the soft mists in melting day, 

Frail spirits of the stricken night, 
Breathing their airy life away. 

The distant hills, yet crowned with dew, 

Look forth in their bright robes of blue. 

The very trees are glad; they raise 

Their plumed heads to the bending skies 

And vine and shrub are rife with praise 
From nature's forest melodies ; 

And mid them, harken ! through the dell 

Sound the fall horn and village bell. 

" God made the country ; " yes, he made 
This home of light, and sheds around 

On summit, shore, in leafy glade, 
Enchantments of a holy ground ; 

He made it freedom's temple, where 

Her sons may offer constant prayer. 

Mid castles breathing stern farewells, 
Where blendings of all beauties shine, 

And ruin ever greenly dwells, 
The muse of the exulting Rhine 

May fondly sing; * be mine this stream 

Where loved New England's glories beam. 

* Childe Harold, Canto III. 


Its ancient hero-shades appear 
Not in mailed pomp, the world to awe; 

"With justice armed, their battle here 
Was waged in freedom's holy war. 

Their deeds shall live, though Europe sings 

Her dirge o'er thousand warrior kings. 

Its castles are our homes of love; 

Its banner-towers our craggy steeps, 
Where toiling health and beauty move, 

And Truth its sleepless vigil keeps; 
Its guardian hosts, myriads of well 
Armed hearts, of power invincible ! 

Flow on, bright river ! from thy source 

Among the highland founts afar, 
And while rejoicing in thy course, 

May morning sun and evening star 
Look down, and ever at thy side, 
See life, and strength, and peace abide ! 



I have been reading some of Tennyson's 
poems, and a recent volume by Bryant. Our 
Annual is not the place for a critique, if I were 
disposed to frame one, and I am not. Suffice it 
to say, that in style, these two writers are widely 
different. The one is clear, calm, deep-flowing, 
like the rivers he loves to describe. The other is 
quaint, enigmatic, suggestive ; he speaks some- 
what in the manner of the new school, and deals 
with subtle movings of the soul. Yet both these 
men are Poets, — true poets. There is nothing 
lack-a-daisical, nothing frothy or jingling even in 
their lighest strains. There is no perverted and 
scorching passion, there are no inuendoes, such 
as you will find in Suckling or Herrick, in 
scores of the old, and in some of the modern 
poets. They breathe pure air ; their sentiment 
comes from hearts that we would welcome at 
our firesides and altars, in our dearest associa- 
tions, assured that they would shed no blight 

the poet's mission. 297 

upon the sanctities of home. They are thought- 
ful and truthful men. 

And now, we are ready to ask, is not every 
genuine poet thus truthful 7 Must not this be an 
essential characteristic, — truth-speaking ? Yea, 
for he is interpreted by the universal heart, and 
it is the Truth which he sets forth, either as 
Teacher, Discoverer, or Prophet ; it is his Truth 
which takes hold of the soul, causes him to be 
read, gives him a world-renown, and canonizes 
his ashes. How often must it be said that the 
hue, the drapery, the sparkling word and the 
embroidered rhyme, are not poetry ? These 
may make smooth reading, and, peradventure, 
pleasant music. But Poetry is the utterance of 
Truth — deep, heartfelt Truth. The true poet is 
very near the Oracle. He communes with " the 
mystery of the universe," discerns the grand 
Fact that lies behind all manifestations, and, as 
he may, delivers it to the world. He may, 
perhaps, speak vaguely — in fragments — seem 
half-crazed with the burden of his mission. 
His words may gush out from his heart like 
waves of fire, tossed and broken, yet deep and 
full of meaning. This, it may be thought, can- 
not always be avoided. Poetry is a gift, lan- 
guage is an art. The one is the spontaneous 
moving of the soul, the other is a human work, 



gradually and systematically framed. The 
words, then, may not always be at hand; the 
Idea may be born naked, before the vesture is 
ready — may outstrip the vehicle. But let no 
man mistake. This vagueness, this hieroglyphic 
writing, is by no means a certain manifestation 
of the true poet. In our whole land, where will 
you find one sweeter and truer than Bryant ? 
Yet his words are all choice, pure, measured. 
No straining is necessary to get at his meaning, 
— it is all crystallized in his verse. But we have 
spoken as we have, that the true poet may not 
be dishonored, though he come in an uncouth 
dress, though he speak sometimes in shadowy 
and broken language. We repeat, he is very 
near the oracle, — his mission is to discern and 
to speak truth. 

The Poet's Mission ! It is a great one. His 
is no mere ornamental life ; his verses are not 
for albums, and gilt-edged books, to lie upon our 
centre-tables, and be read when we are indolent, 
and want light reading. We have said his 
function is to speak the Truth. There is a 
Truth in every thing; no movement, no mani- 
festation is utterly a lie. It is based upon, or 
involves a fact, and were that fact known and 
acted upon, the world would be wiser and hap- 
pier. We are engirt with falsehoods, penetrated 

the poet's mission. 299 

and bound by them. It is falsehood that the 
world groans and travails under. It is falsehood 
that humanity grapples with, grimly and doubt- 
fully, in its progress. There is falsehood in our 
motives and acts, falsehood in society, falsehood 
in our interpretations of nature and Revelation. 
What do we need, then? What must we have, 
in order to be free and truthful ? We need men 
who shall rise, and preach, and sing, and toil, to 
show us the truth, to strip off the cerements of 
error, to call us to duty, to encourage our hopes, 
to deliver us from our wrongs, to nerve us to our 
labor, and to the accomplishment of our destiny. 
And the poet is one of these missionaries. 
His speech is for the human heart, in all its cir- 
cumstances, toiling, bleeding, scarred, and sor- 
rowful, crushed by sin and oppression, working 
out blindly its destiny. From the mountain-top 
where he has sat in the kindlings of the morning, 
— from the watch-tower where he has gazed 
into the serene, far heaven, — from the forests 
where he has communed with nature and with 
God, the poet comes forth into the dusty, 
trampled highway, the great mart of human life ; 
he mingles with the rushing crowd, the various, 
anxious faces, the selfish striving, the hollow 
friendships, the dry-husk religion of the world. 
He is not made to be a hermit, a solitary man, 


committing snatches of verse to the air, and 
tuning his soul to wind-harps. From the lonely 
truth, he comes to the many-faced reality — from 
the solitary communion, to the eager, blended, 
crowded, e very-day multitude. He comes thus 
and speaks ; speaks in warm, sweet, or trumpet- 
tones ; speaks to the desolate and mourning, 
speaks to the clogged ear and the calloused 
heart ; touches some chord that yet lives, and 
that none but the poet can reach. And the 
human heart recognizes him, the universal heart. 
It matters but little in what language his thought 
was originally clothed. Written among the 
banks and braes of bonny Scotland, it shall thrill 
some woodman's heart in our distant West; 
penned in a garret, amid the wretchedness of 
poverty and starvation, it shall lead men to build 
and garnish a tomb to his memory. The poor 
shall love the poet, the blessed, pious poor ; the 
sick heart shall feel a new pulse when he 
breathes, and the noble yet scorned mind shall 
know that there is a kindred spirit in the world ; 
the universal soul is moved, the sensualist gives 
signs of life, the mourner dries his tears, the 
bowed serf takes courage and looks forward, the 
hoary sinner trembles, or melts, old error ap- 
pears bald and hideous, tyrants shake, thrones 
totter, fetters snap asunder, and the whole mass 

the poet's mission. 301 

of humanity is stirred, as the waters are stirred 
by the rushing of a swift wind. 

Is not the poet's mission a great one, then, 
inasmuch as it is a mission of truth ? Is he not 
a laborer for human good, an agent of human 
progress ? As such, is he not to be welcomed 
and honored ? 

But there is one other aspect of the true poet 
in his mission, which we would now consider. 
He is to speak the truth ; how is he to speak it ? 
In what manner, with what motive shall he ad- 
dress the universal heart ? Shall he be a grim 
messenger, enveloped in darkness — a prophet of 
denunciation and wrath ? Shall he see through 
fearful eyes, and look upon an horizon blood-red 
and cloudy ? No ! He must speak the truth in 
Love. He must be hopeful and affectionate. 
He must sympathize with humanity in all its 
phases, beneath all its rags and its scars ? Else 
how shall he speak to it ? how shall he care to 
speak to it ? He cannot have communion with 
man in all his wants and all his frailties, until he 
knows man ; he cannot know man until he loves 
him. Other knowledge he may have, but with- 
out communion with man, without the knowledge 
of human love, it is all cheerless and barren. It 
is a glorious thing to know. We must admire 
the mind that scales the universe, and reads the 


stars. What a privilege is that, to stand upon 
the highest limit of human research and look off 
into the infinite — to hear even there the music 
that swells through its upper deeps ! To measure 
the distance of a star, to know the track of 
a comet, to read the subtle laws of mind, to re- 
veal the very soul of matter, to rend the hoary 
secret from the ocean and the rock ! And 
yet what is it all, unaccompanied with warm 
and generous love to man ? What is it to us 
that we lock this knowledge in our bosoms, and 
bolt it with bolts of ice, and pass our brethren 
with stern and frowning brows, and think at 
heart that they are beneath us ? What is all this 
knowledge to us, then ? Nothing. We are 
solitary men. We have not yet learned the 
mystery of things, with all our knowledge. We 
know not what it is that makes the earth so glad, 
and that looks out from heaven in the brightness 
of a star. We know not what warm currents 
there are in the human heart, how pleasant is 
that mingling with men, how like an instrument 
of music is the human voice, how like a ray of 
hope is the human eye, how confident and glad 
we may be made by the grasp of an honest 
hand. Shut up a student with his books and his 
instruments. Let the sickly lamp-light fall late 
upon his brow, and the day-star find him at his 

the poet's mission. 303 

work. Let him read the heavens awhile — let 
him scan the deep-laid earth — let him, by a 
cunning alchemy, extort the secrets of nature. 
How soon will the heart become weary with this ! 
How soon will the brain ache ! And he will 
exclaim, " O, leave me not alone with Knowl- 
edge ! Let me have communion with beings 
like myself." Shall he live thus isolated ? Shall 
he have no kind voice of love, no word of 
cheer ? Shall he walk out among the homes of 
men, and see how deep and strong is the power 
of human affection ; shall he see it standing by 
the bridal-altar, watching with its pale brow over 
the sick couch, and leaning for support upon the 
bosom of friendship ; shall he see it carolling 
around the hearth-stone and threshold, breathed 
in the remembrances of prayer, laid upon the 
head in parental blessing, and sitting on the 
green grave, unchanged and undying ; and look 
upon it all with a cold, hard eye, feel that he has 
no communion with it, that he knows it not, that 
it cares not for him ? O ! from every fibre of 
that isolated soul, from every deep place of that 
heart, must come the rebuke, " Though thou hast 
the gift of prophecy, and understandest all mys- 
teries, and all knowledge, yet having not Love, 
thou art nothing." 

So the true poet possesses something more 


than truth, or knowledge, which is based upon 
truth. He must commune with that of which 
truth is the going-forth, or utterance — the spirit 
that lies behind all — which is Love. Moved by 
this, must he speak. And it is the possession of 
this that will distinguish his speech from mere 
scientific disclosure, or logical induction. It is 
this love that gives to his utterance its lyrical 
character, that makes it break in measure, and 
flow in music. It is this that causes him to be 
welcomed by the universal soul, and remembered 
when he is dead. The breathings of a fierce 
scorn, the denunciations of a disappointed genius, 
the dejected and bitter sentiments of a misan- 
thropy, affected or real, — these are not the ele- 
ments of true poetry, they are not what we 
cherish, what we admire ; if the name of him 
who uttered them is left to the future, it is for 
something noble, something generous, that ac- 
companied them, and that was manifested with 
or below them. Not that the true poet will 
never be indignant ; he will, he must be. He, 
looking below the surfaces of things, discovers 
the hollow formalities, the sickening professions, 
and the deep selfishness and sinfulness that lie 
under them. When hypocrisy stands like a 
whited sepulchre, — when demagogueism grins, 
and bows, and cheats, — when tyranny reigns 

the poet's mission. 305 

under the form of law, — when pride rolls by in 
its gilded chariot, and want stretches out its 
withered hand unnoticed, — when the pampered 
few batten on the toiling million, — when right is 
not, and wrong is, the poet will, I say, must be, 
indignant ; must speak out in tones like thunder. 
But, even then, it will be the sin, more than the 
sinner, that he will denounce ; the words of re- 
buke and warning will be accompanied by a 
pitying eye and a loving heart. 

The utterance of Truth in the spirit of Love. 
This, then, is the Poet's Mission. This makes 
poetry. Our age is full of such lyrics, written 
on a grand scale, played upon all the strings of 
the human heart. Every noble reform around 
us is a procession, an outpealing of such sublime 
poetry. And the true poet of our age is he who 
sets the key-note, or becomes the voice, or ex- 
pression, of this spirit of the times. The chains 
of sixty centuries are breaking ; the veils of 
night-like ages are rent in sunder, and far 
through opening valleys rich with the nodding 
harvest, and far over lofty hill-tops glad with 
the rising morning, comes the great march of 
humanity set to triumphal music. And the 
true poet sees, and feels, and. imhodies this 
mighty movement. He discerns below all su- 
perficialities ; he overlooks all temporal and false 


landmarks; he speaks to the spiritual and the 
unseen in man, as one who chiefly values that, 
and loves it ; he speaks to the world-wide race as 
one who has hope for it, and says, " Rejoice ! " 
Many such poets of our time, we trust there 
are ; not all speaking in verse, not all using the 
measured cadence of rhyme, but all, with expan- 
sive minds and generous hearts, speaking the 
Truth in Love. 

Enough, if we add that the true poet, he who 
would feel thus warmly, and speak thus truly, 
must know Christianity, must drink from its clear 
and living waters. There, only, is the highest 
manifestation and the real union of truth and 
love. Partaking of that sentiment, with the 
throbbings of genius in the soul, a man shall be 
a true poet, and fulfil the poet's mission. He 
shall be a Teacher. He shall draw from all 
things a blessed instruction. Like Bryant, he 
shall give us a noble " Thanatopsis ; " shall show 
us all earth for our tomb, all nature, with its 
pomp and procession of beauty, for our death- 
chamber. Like Tennyson, he shall struggle for 
us with the " Two Voices " of skepticism and 
faith, and give triumph to the latter. He shall 
be a Discoverer. In rude and common things 
he shall open a soul-like fact, some harmony and 
beauty that the careless eye has never seen. 

the poet's mission. 307 

And he shall be a Prophet. On the outer limits 
of our vision he shall stand, discerning what yet 
shall be. In the clangor of the conflict he shall 
hear the shouts of victory ; through the veil of 
the twilight he shall behold the golden coming 
of the morning ; at his side shall stand Love, 
with her heaped but bloodless trophies, and at 
his right hand Hope shall lean upon her anchor, 
and look serenely into the Future. 



All day long he sits in his chair, 

And sways him. to and fro; 
Upon his brow is writ no care, 

And tears — they never flow; 
His merry laugh rings out at morn, 
Like the robin's note from yonder thorn. 

He cannot understand why tears 
Course down his mother's cheek, 

While she, with anxious hopes and fears, 
Attempts to make him speak; 

It cannot be ; words will not come. 

Poor idiot brother ! he is dumb. 

I Ve sat and watched him by., the hour, 
When sunlight bathed the earth, 

And gazed with him on many a flower 
Just bursting into birth, 

And wished he knew as well as I, 

That flowers all blossom but to die. 


And when there comes a cloudy day, 

And storms beat on the pane, 
He '11 list and look, but cannot say. 

He loves to hear it rain. 
Poor idiot boy ! he cannot feel 
The shower's sweet music o'er him steal. 

With patient eye he sits and looks 

Far out upon the sky, 
And down upon the babbling brooks 

That dance beneath his eye; 
But neither brooks nor sky have given 
His soul a taste of future heaven. 

Ah ! knows he what it is to live ? 

He never heaves a sigh ; 
He has no burning tears to give 

To those who grieve or die ; 
His days are all filled up with joy 3 
And yet we cry, — poor idiot boy ! 



; O, do not pluck the flowers ; they are sacred to the dead.'" 

Touch not the flowers, the cherished flowers, 
The festal gifts of summer hours ; 
They 're holy things ; they bloom to shed 
A glad'ning radiance round the dead ; 
Their glowing cups and sweet perfume 
Dissolve the shadows of the tomb; 
'T was no vain love, — the love that gave 
Their vernal freshness to the grave. 

The snowy marble's sculptured height, 
May seem to thee a prouder sight. 
And ye may read in language fair, 
High names and deeds emblazoned there ; 
But can its gorgeous splendor vie 
With the imperial lily's die ? 
Its shrine a purer record be 
Of all that binds the lost to thee? 


Touch not the flowers; we know not death 
Amid their loveliness ; each wreath 
That floats upon the summer gale 
Bears sad'ning tones from sorrow's wail; 
O ! can ye mark their bloom, nor feel 
The truth their bursting buds reveal, 
That earth her sacred trust must yield, 
Whether from bower or tented field? 

There, where yon simple daisy rears 
Its smiling head, with many tears 
They laid a fair young bride to rest ; 
Touch not the flower her love hath blest ; 
Within its clustering petals lie 
Memories and hopes that cannot die ; 
Her spirit o'er its leaves hath shed 
A life that animates the dead. 

How vain the costly pile to rear 
O'er those who scorned such trappings here ; 
Swift time, with strong, o'ermastering power 
Prostrates high tomb, and lowly flower ; 
But summer's breathings shall renew 
The rose's bloom, the violet's hue; 
Not so the carved and fretted stone — 
It springs no more ; its glory 's gone. 


Touch not the flowers ; O, can there be. 
Childhood, a holier type of thee? 
A fitter image of thy doom 
Than the wild floweret's transient bloom? 
Let the pure sculpture gleam for him 
Before whose breath the world grew dim, 
But spare to purity the shrine 
Upspringing by a hand divine. 

Touch not the flowers; the fervent prayer. 
Poured o'er the erring slumberer there, 
On incense pinions shall arise, 
With blissful chastenings to the skies. 
God speaks in every glorious hue, 
Bright words of promise unto you; 
O'er all his healing love he sheds; 
Touch not the flowers. They are the dead's. 


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